r 


LIBRARY 


UNIVERSITY  OP 
CALIFORNIA 
,  SAN  DIESO 


lllimiiri'lWi7iTM9i';„9^,L"'ORNIA.  SAN  DIEGO 


3  1822  01727  4275 


PA/ 


Central  University  Library 

University  of  California,  San  Diego 
Please  Note:  This  item  is  subject  to  recall. 

Date  Due 

MAR  0  8  1935 

DEC  2  1  1994 

1 

C\  39  (7/93)                                                                        ^^^^  '-*• 

fliontesuma  JEMtion 
THE    WORKS    OF    WILLIAM    H.    PRESCOTT 

TWENTY-TWO  VOLUMES 

Vol.  XX. 


The  Montezuma  Edition  of  William  H.  Prescott's 
Works  is  limited  to  one  thousand  copies,  of  which 
this  is 

Wo. 


A  KING  OF  NAVABKE  MAKING  AN  INCURSION  INTO  CASTILE. 
Page:ii4. 


flQonte3uma  Edition 


BIOGRAPHICAL 


Critical  Miscellanies 


,,jr 


BY 

WILUAM  H.  PRESCOTT 


WITH   AN   INTRODUCTION   BY 

WILFRED  HAROLD  MUNRO 

PROFESSOR    OF    EUROPEAN     HISTORY     IN     BROWN     UNIVERSITY 


VOL.  I 


PHILADELPHIA  AND  LONDON 
J.    B.    LIPPINCOTT   COMPANY 


Copyright,  1863,  by  Gkorgs  Ticknor 
Copyright,  1904,  by  J,  B.  Lippincott  Compakt 


Electrotyped  and  Printed  by 
J.  B.  Lippincott  Company,  Philadelphia,  U.  S.  A. 


CONTENTS  OF  VOL.  I 


CHARLE3  BROCKDEN  BROWN,  THE  AMERICAN  NOVELIST        ....        1 

ASYLUM  FOR  THE  BLIND  58 

IRVING's  conquest  of  GRANADA 89 

cervantes 12s 

sir   walter   scott , 175 

Chateaubriand's   English  literattjhb 242 

Bancroft's   united   states 290 

MADAME  CALDERON's   LIFE  IN   MEXICO 336 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

A  King  of  Navaere  Making  an  Incxtesion  into  Castile 

Frontispiece 
Original  illustration  by  Paul  Albert  Laurens. 

POKTRAIT  OF  VoLTAIRE 41 

After  the  bust  by  Houden  at  Versailles. 

Don  Quixote  124 

After  the  Painting  by  Barrau. 

LucT  of  Lammermoor 199 

After  the  Painting  by  V61y. 

Portrait  of  Chateaubriand 275 

After  the  painting  by  Girodet  in  the  Museum  at  St.  Malo. 


INTRODUCTION 


THE  volume  of  Biographical  and  Critical  Mis- 
cellanies was  published  when  Prescott  had 
attained  an  international  reputation.  It  was  sent 
to  the  press  not  because  of  any  intrinsic  merit  in 
the  essays  themselves,  but  because  their  author 
rightly  judged  that  the  reading  public,  especially 
in  England,  would  like  to  peruse  some  of  his  ear- 
liest productions,  and  to  compare  them  with  his 
later  works.  The  English  edition,  which  contains 
all  the  papers  except  the  review  of  Ticknor's  His- 
tory of  Spanish  Literature,  was  published  in  1845. 
As  one  studies  the  Miscellanies  to-day  he 
realizes  fully  the  force  of  Daniel  Webster's  oft- 
quoted  remark  when,  after  the  publication  of  the 
' '  History  of  the  Reign  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella' ' 
he  characterized  Prescott  as  * '  a  comet  which  had 
suddenly  blazed  out  upon  the  world  in  full 
splendor. ' '  They  are  exceedingly  interesting  to 
the  historical  student  who  desires  to  compare  the 
reviews  of  the  first  half  of  the  last  century  with 
those  of  the  present  day.  But  if  any  one,  when 
they  were  first  published,  had  ventured  to  predict 
that  their  author  would,  before  his  death,  become 
the  most  famous  of  American  historians,  the  pre- 
diction would  have  been    received  with  consid- 

ix 


X  INTRODUCTION 

erable  incredulity,  to  say  the  least.  Not  that  the 
reviews  are  unworthy  of  respect,  but  because  they 
only  vaguely  indicate  the  genius  that  Prescott 
possessed. 

The  earliest  article  (upon  Italian  Narrative 
Poetry)  was  published  in  1824,  when  Prescott 
was  twenty-eight  years  old.  All  but  those 
upon  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Chateaubriand's  English 
Literature,  Bancroft's  United  States,  Madame 
Calderon's  Life  in  Mexico,  and  Ticknor's  Spanish 
Literature  appeared  before  the  ' '  Ferdinand  and 
Isabella"  was  sent  to  the  printer,  and  all  except 
the  review  of  Ticknor's  volumes  appeared  before 
the  publication  of  the  "  Conquest  of  Mexico" 
(the  historian's  second  work),  in   October,  1843. 

Prescott  devoted  much  time  and  labor  to 
the  preparation  of  his  reviews,  but  he  was  never 
especially  successful  in  that  field  of  work.  His 
style  is  formal  and  lifeless.  He  rarely  warms  to 
his  subject  and  he  discovers  little  historical  imagi- 
nation. It  is  impossible  to  imagine  the  author 
of  Italian  Narrative  Poetry  ever  WTiting  the  en- 
trancing account  of  the  Triste  Noche.  All  his 
historical  works  were  sold  because  of  their  exceed- 
ing merit.  The  volume  of  reviews  was  sold  be- 
cause of  its  author's  great  reputation.  How  great 
that  reputation  was  its  large  sale  testifies.  If  the 
nine  oldest  essays  had  been  published  in  book 
form  before  the  "Ferdinand  and  Isabella"  had 
made  their  author  known  to  the  public,  their  pub- 
lisher would  have  had  a  lot  of  dead  stock  upon 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

his  hands.  All  the  essays  manifest  large  learning, 
but  the  earlier  ones  show  that  their  author  was 
unusually  modest  in  his  estimate  of  his  own 
powers,  and  especially  of  the  value  of  his  judg- 
ment as  a  critic.  Moreover,  he  seems  weighed 
down  by  the  knowledge  of  the  low  esteem  in 
which  all  "  British- American"  work  was  held  by 
the  great  reviewers  on  the  other  side  of  the  At- 
lantic. This  is  notably  true  in  the  case  of  the 
oldest  essay  (Italian  Narrative  Poetry).  We 
discern  in  it  few  indications  of  its  author's  ability 
to  write  history.  It  is  impossible  for  the  average 
reader  to  become  deeply  interested  in  it.  It  ap- 
peals to  specialists  only — to  those  conversant 
with  the  subject  of  which  it  treats.  The  second 
in  point  of  age,  "DaPonte's  Observations,"  is 
interesting  mainly  because  it  shows  us  what  Pres- 
cott  was  (and  was  not)  able  to  accomplish  in  a 
controversial  way. 

That  upon  Moliere  is  admirable.  We  see  in 
it  the  first  beams  of  the  luminary  that  was  nine 
years  later  to  blaze  upon  the  world.  The  next 
review  is  upon  Irving 's  Conquest  of  Granada. 
Irving's  field  was  one  in  which  Prescott  had  al- 
ready for  some  time  been  working.  In  its  thirty 
and  more  pages  the  reader  will  find  three  pages 
with  some  mention  of  Irving's  authorities,  but  he 
will  seek  in  vain  for  its  author's  opinion  of  Irving's 
work.  This  is  probably  due  to  the  fact  that 
Prescott  was  distrustful  of  the  value  of  his  own 
critical  judgment.     Twelve  years  later,  when  the 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

world  had  expressed  in  no  uncertain  language 
its  approval  of  the  author  of  ' '  Ferdinand  and 
Isabella,"  he  does  not  hesitate  to  commend  in 
very  emphatic  terms  Bancroft's  "  History  of  the 
United  States." 

The  article  upon  the  "Asylum  for  the  Blind" 
has  a  pathetic  interest  because  of  the  condition  of 
Prescott's  own  eyes.  It  is  really  an  earnest  plea 
for  a  wider  recognition  of  the  immense  work  ac- 
complished by  those  to  whom  the  visible  world 
is  a  sealed  book. 

The  biographical  article  upon  Charles  Brock- 
den  Brown  was  written  in  two  weeks'  time.  It 
commands  attention  as  a  biography,  but  is  not 
specially  valuable  as  a  criticism  of  Brown's  liter- 
ary work.  Jared  Sparks,  editor  of  the  series  of 
American  Biographies  for  which  it  was  written, 
thought  its  author  generalized  too  much.  Prescott 
himself  found  that  he  had  indulged  in  too  much 
eulogy.  Many  critics  have  since  judged  that 
much  of  his  eulogy  was  misplaced. 

The  last  review,  upon  Ticknor's  History  of 
Spanish  Literature,  was  written  in  1852,  shortly 
after  its  author's  return  from  Europe.  He  was 
then  at  the  height  of  his  fame,  and  had  been 
lionized  in  England  as  no  American  historian 
ever  had  been  before.  The  judgment  of  the  world 
had  placed  him  in  the  front  rank  of  the  historical 
writers  of  the  century.  He  knew  that  he  might 
confidently  express  his  own  opinions  and  that  few 
would  venture  to  question  their  value.    The  temp- 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

tation  to  high  eulogy  was  great.  For  years  Ticknor 
had  been  his  intimate  friend.  Prescott  knew  how 
thorough  his  friend's  work  had  always  been,  and 
how  valuable  the  results  of  his  labors  were.  For 
almost  a  generation  he  had  been  studying  the 
general  history  of  the  country  of  which  the 
literary  historian  wrote.  His  review  is  com- 
mendatory in  the  highest  degree,  but  it  is  justly 
so.  It  is  an  admirable  characterization  of  what 
Ticknor  had  accomplished,  and  its  verdict  of  un- 
qualified approval  has  been  sustained  by  the  judg- 
ment of  the  whole  critical  world. 

Wilfred  H.  Munro. 
Brown  Uxiversity, 

April  2,  1906. 


BIOGRAPHICAL 

AND 

CRITICAL  MISCELLANIES 


MEMOIR   OF 

CHARLES    BROCKDEN   BROWN 

THE   AMERICAN    NOVELIST* 

THE  class  of  professed  men  of  letters,  if  we 
exclude  from  the  account  the  conductors  of 
periodical  journals,  is  certainly  not  very  large, 
even  at  the  present  day,  in  our  country;  but  be- 
fore the  close  of  the  last  century  it  was  nearly  im- 
possible to  meet  with  an  individual  who  looked  to 
authorship  as  his  only,  or,  indeed,  his  principal, 
means  of  subsistence.  This  was  somewhat  the 
more  remarkable,  considering  the  extraordinary 
development  of  intellectual  power  exhibited  in 
every  quarter  of  the  country,  and  applied  to  every 
variety  of  moral  and  social  culture,  and  formed 
a  singular  contrast  ^vith  more  than  one  nation  in 
Europe,  where  literature  still  continued  to  be  fol- 
lowed as  a  distinct  profession,  amid  all  the  diffi- 
culties resulting  from  an  arbitrary  government 
and  popular  imbecility  and  ignorance. 

Abundant  reasons  are  suggested  for  this  by  the 
various  occupations  afforded  to  talent  of  all  kinds, 
not  only  in  the  exercise  of  political  functions,  but 
in  the  splendid  career  opened  to  enterprise  of 
every  description  in  our  free  and  thriving  com- 
munity.    We  were  in  the  morning  of  life,  as  it 

*From  Spark's  American  Biography,  1834. 

3 


4  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

were,  when  everything  summoned  us  to  action; 
when  the  spirit  was  quickened  by  hope  and  youth- 
ful confidence;  and  we  felt  that  we  had  our  race 
to  run,  unlike  those  nations  who,  having  reached 
the  noontide  of  their  glory  or  sunk  into  their  de- 
cHne,  were  naturally  led  to  dwell  on  the  soothing 
recollections  of  the  past,  and  to  repose  themselves, 
after  a  tumultuous  existence,  in  the  quiet  pleas- 
ures of  study  and  contemplation.  "  It  was  amid 
the  ruins  of  the  Capitol,"  says  Gibbon,  "  that  I 
first  conceived  the  idea  of  writing  the  History  of 
the  Roman  Empire."  The  occupation  suited  well 
with  the  spirit  of  the  place,  but  would  scarcely 
have  harmonized  with  the  Hfe  of  bustling  energy 
and  the  thousand  novelties  which  were  perpetually 
stimulating  the  appetite  for  adventure  in  our  new 
and  unexplored  hemisphere.  In  short,  to  express 
it  in  one  word,  the  peculiarities  of  our  situation  as 
naturally  disposed  us  to  active  life  as  those  of  the 
old  countries  of  Europe  to  contemplative. 

The  subject  of  the  present  memoir  affords  an 
almost  solitary  example,  at  this  period,  of  a 
scholar,  in  the  enlarged  application  of  the  term, 
who  cultivated  letters  as  a  distinct  and  exclusive 
profession,  resting  his  means  of  support,  as  well 
as  his  fame,  on  his  success,  and  who,  as  a  writer 
of  fiction,  is  still  farther  entitled  to  credit  for 
having  quitted  the  beaten  grounds  of  the  Old 
Country  and  sought  his  subjects  in  the  untried 
wilderness  of  his  own.  The  particulars  of  his  un- 
ostentatious life  have  been  collected  with  sufficient 
industry  by  his  friend  Mr.  William  Dunlap,  to 
whom  our  native  literature  is  under  such  large 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  6 

obligations  for  the  extent  and  fidelity  of  his  re- 
searches. We  will  select  a  few  of  the  most  promi- 
nent incidents  from  a  mass  of  miscellaneous  frag- 
ments and  literary  lumber  with  which  his  work  is 
somewhat  encumbered.  It  were  to  be  wished  that, 
in  the  place  of  some  of  them,  more  copious  ex- 
tracts had  been  substituted  from  his  journal  and 
correspondence,  which  doubtless,  in  this  as  in  other 
cases,  must  aiFord  the  most  interesting  as  well  as 
authentic  materials  for  biography. 

Charles  Brockden  Brown  was  born  at  Phila- 
delphia, January  17th,  1771.  He  was  descended 
from  a  highly  respectable  family,  whose  ancestors 
were  of  that  estimable  sect  who  came  over  with 
William  Penn  to  seek  an  asylum  where  they 
might  worship  their  Creator  unmolested  in  the 
meek  and  humble  spu'it  of  their  own  faith.  From 
his  earliest  childhood  Brown  gave  evidence  of  his 
studious  propensities,  being  frequently  noticed  by 
his  father,  on  his  return  from  school,  poring  over 
some  heavy  tome,  nothing  daunted  by  the  formid- 
able words  it  contained,  or  mounted  on  a  table 
and  busily  engaged  in  exploring  a  map  which 
hung  on  the  parlor  wall.  This  infantine  predilec- 
tion for  geographical  studies  ripened  into  a  pas- 
sion in  later  years.  Another  anecdote,  recorded 
of  him  at  the  age  of  ten,  sets  in  a  still  stronger 
hght  his  appreciation  of  intellectual  pursuits  far 
above  his  years.  A  visitor  at  his  father's  having 
rebuked  him,  as  it  would  seem,  without  cause,  for 
some  remark  he  had  made,  gave  him  the  con- 
temptuous epithet  of  "  boy."  "  What  does  he 
mean,"   said   the   young   philosopher,   after   the 


6  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

guest's  departure,  "  by  calling  me  boy?  Does  he 
not  know  that  it  is  neither  size  nor  age,  but  sense, 
that  makes  the  man?  I  could  ask  him  a  hundred 
questions,  none  of  which  he  could  answer." 

At  eleven  years  of  age  he  was  placed  under  the 
tuition  of  Mr.  Robert  Proud,  well  known  as  the 
author  of  the  History  of  Pennsylvania.  Under 
his  direction  he  went  over  a  large  course  of  Eng- 
hsh  reading,  and  acquired  the  elements  of  Greek 
and  Latin,  applying  himself  with  great  assiduity 
to  his  studies.  His  bodily  health  was  naturally 
delicate,  and  indisposed  him  to  engage  in  the 
robust,  athletic  exercises  of  boyhood.  His  seden- 
tary habits,  however,  began  so  evidently  to  impair 
his  health  that  his  master  recommended  him  to 
withdraw  from  his  books  and  recruit  his  strength 
by  excursions  on  foot  into  the  country.  These 
pedestrian  rambles  suited  the  taste  of  the  pupil, 
and  the  length  of  his  absence  often  excited  the 
apprehensions  of  his  friends  for  his  safety.  He 
may  be  thought  to  have  sat  to  himself  for  this 
portrait  of  one  of  his  heroes.  "  I  preferred  to 
ramble  in  the  forest  and  loiter  on  the  hill;  per- 
petually to  change  the  scene ;  to  scrutinize  the  end- 
less variety  of  objects;  to  compare  one  leaf  and 
pebble  with  another;  to  pursue  those  trains  of 
thought  which  their  resemblances  and  differences 
suggested;  to  inquire  what  it  was  that  gave  them 
this  place,  structure,  and  form,  were  more  agree- 
able employments  than  ploughing  and  threshing." 
"  My  frame  was  delicate  and  feeble.  Exposure 
to  wet  blasts  and  vertical  suns  was  sure  to  make 
me  sick."  The  fondness  for  these  solitary  rambles 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  7 

continued  through  Hfe,  and  the  familiarity  which 
they  opened  to  him  with  the  grand  and  beautiful 
scenes  of  nature  undoubtedly  contributed  to  nour- 
ish the  habit  of  revery  and  abstraction,  and  to 
deepen  the  romantic  sensibilities  from  which 
flowed  so  much  of  his  misery,  as  well  as  happiness, 
in  after-life. 

He  quitted  Mr.  Proud's  school  before  the  age 
of  sixteen.  He  had  previously  made  some  small 
poetical  attempts,  and  soon  after  sketched  the 
plans  of  three  several  epics,  on  the  discovery  of 
America  and  the  conquests  of  Peru  and  Mexico. 
For  some  time  they  engaged  liis  attention  to  the 
exclusion  of  every  other  object.  No  vestige  of 
them  now  remains,  or,  at  least,  has  been  given  to 
the  public,  by  which  we  can  ascertain  the  progress 
made  towards  their  completion.  The  publication 
of  such  immature  juvenile  productions  may 
gratify  curiosity  by  affording  a  point  of  com- 
parison with  later  excellence.  They  are  rarely, 
however,  of  value  in  themselves  sufficient  to  au- 
thorize their  exposure  to  the  world,  and,  notwith- 
standing the  occasional  exception  of  a  Pope  or  a 
Pascal,  may  very  safely  put  up  with  Uncle  Toby's 
recommendation  on  a  similar  display  of  pre- 
cocity, "  to  hush  it  up,  and  say  as  little  about  it  as 
possible." 

Among  the  contributions  which,  at  a  later 
period  of  life,  he  w^as  in  the  habit  of  making  to 
different  journals,  the  fate  of  one  was  too  singu- 
lar to  be  passed  over  in  silence.  It  was  a  poetical 
address  to  Franklin,  prepared  for  the  Edentown 
newspaper.      "  The    blundering    printer,"    says 


8  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

Brown,  in  liis  journal,  "  from  zeal  or  ignorance, 
or  perhaps  from  both,  substituted  the  name  of 
Washington.  Washington,  therefore,  stands 
arrayed  in  awkward  colors;  philosophy  smiles  to 
behold  her  darling  son ;  she  turns  with  horror  and 
disgust  from  those  who  have  won  the  laurel  of 
victory  in  the  field  of  battle,  to  this  her  favorite 
candidate,  who  had  never  participated  in  such 
bloody  glory,  and  whose  fame  was  derived  from 
the  conquest  of  philosophy  alone.  The  printer, 
by  his  blundering  ingenuity,  made  the  subject 
ridiculous.  Every  word  of  this  clumsy  panegyric 
was  a  direct  slander  upon  Washington,  and  so  it 
was  regarded  at  the  time."  There  could  not  well 
be  imagined  a  more  expeditious  or  effectual  recipe 
for  converting  eulogy  into  satire. 

Young  Brown  had  now  reached  a  period  of  life 
when  it  became  necessary  to  decide  on  a  profes- 
sion. After  due  deliberation,  he  determined  on 
the  law, — a  choice  which  received  the  cordial 
approbation  of  his  friends,  who  saw  in  his  habitual 
diligence  and  the  character  of  his  mind,  at  once 
comprehensive  and  logical,  the  most  essential 
requisites  for  success.  He  entered  on  the  studies 
of  his  profession  with  his  usual  ardor;  and  the 
acuteness  and  copiousness  of  his  arguments  on 
various  topics  proposed  for  discussion  in  a  law- 
society  over  which  he  presided  bear  ample  testi- 
mony to  his  ability  and  industry.  But,  however 
suited  to  his  talents  the  profession  of  the  law 
might  be,  it  was  not  at  all  to  his  taste.  He  became 
a  member  of  a  literary  club,  in  which  he  made  fre- 
quent essays  in  composition  and  eloquence.     He 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  9 

kept  a  copious  journal,  and  by  familiar  exercise 
endeavored  to  acquire  a  pleasing  and  graceful 
style  of  writing;  and  every  hour  that  he  could 
steal  from  professional  schooling  was  devoted  to 
the  cultivation  of  more  attractive  literature.  In 
one  of  his  contributions  to  a  journal,  just  before 
this  period,  he  speaks  of  "  the  rapture  with  which 
he  held  communion  with  his  own  thoughts  amid 
the  gloom  of  surrounding  woods,  where  his  fancy 
peopled  every  object  with  ideal  beings,  and  the 
barrier  between  himself  and  the  world  of  spirits 
seemed  burst  by  the  force  of  meditation.  In  this 
solitude,  he  felt  himself  surrounded  by  a  delight- 
ful society;  but  when  transported  from  thence, 
and  compelled  to  listen  to  the  frivolous  chat  of 
his  fellow-beings,  he  suffered  all  the  miseries  of 
solitude."  He  declares  that  his  intercourse  and 
conversation  with  mankind  had  wrought  a  salu- 
tary change;  that  he  can  now  mingle  in  the  con- 
cerns of  life,  perform  his  appropriate  duties,  and 
reserve  that  higher  species  of  discourse  for  the 
sohtude  and  silence  of  his  study.  In  this  sup- 
posed control  over  his  romantic  fancies  he  grossly 
deceived  himself. 

As  the  time  approached  for  entering  on  the 
practice  of  his  profession,  he  felt  his  repugnance 
to  it  increase  more  and  more;  and  he  sought  to 
justify  a  retreat  from  it  altogether  by  such  poor 
sophistry  as  his  imagination  could  suggest.  He 
objected  to  the  profession  as  having  something 
in  it  immoral.  He  could  not  reconcile  it  with  his 
notions  of  duty  to  come  forward  as  the  champion 
indiscriminately  of  right  and  wrong ;  and  he  con- 


10  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

sidered  the  stipendiary  advocate  of  a  guilty  party 
as  becoming,  by  that  very  act,  participator  in  the 
guilt.  He  did  not  allow  himself  to  reflect  that 
no  more  equitable  arrangement  could  be  devised, 
none  which  would  give  the  humblest  individual 
so  fair  a  chance  for  maintaining  his  rights  as  the 
employment  of  competent  and  upright  counsel, 
familiar  with  the  forms  of  legal  practice,  neces- 
sarily so  embarrassing  to  a  stranger;  that,  so  far 
from  being  compelled  to  undertake  a  cause  mani- 
festly unjust,  it  is  always  in  the  power  of  an 
honest  lawj^er  to  decline  it,  but  that  such  contin- 
gencies are  of  most  rare  occurrence,  as  few  cases 
are  litigated  where  each  party  has  not  previously 
plausible  grounds  for  believing  himself  in  the 
right,  a  question  only  to  be  settled  by  fair  dis- 
cussion on  both  sides;  that  opportunities  are  not 
wanting,  on  the  other  hand,  which  invite  the  high- 
est display  of  eloquence  and  professional  science 
in  detecting  and  defeating  villany,  in  vindicating 
slandered  innocence,  and  in  expounding  the  great 
principles  of  law  on  which  the  foundations  of 
personal  security  and  property  are  established; 
and,  finally,  that  the  most  illustrious  names  in  his 
own  and  every  other  civilized  country  have  been 
drawn  from  the  ranks  of  a  profession  whose 
habitual  discipline  so  well  trains  them  for  legis- 
lative action  and  the  exercise  of  the  highest  poUti- 
cal  functions. 

Brown  cannot  be  supposed  to  have  been  insensi- 
ble to  these  obvious  views ;  and,  indeed,  from  one 
of  his  letters  in  later  life,  he  appears  to  have 
clearly  recognized  the  value  of  the  profession  he 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  11 

had  deserted.  But  his  object  was,  at  this  time,  to 
justify  himself  in  his  fickleness  of  purpose,  as  he 
best  might,  in  his  own  eyes  and  those  of  his 
friends.  Brown  was  certainly  not  the  first  man 
of  genius  who  found  himself  incapable  of  resign- 
ing the  romantic  world  of  fiction  and  the  uncon- 
trolled revels  of  the  imagination  for  the  dull  and 
prosaic  realities  of  the  law.  Few,  indeed,  like 
Mansfield,  have  been  able  so  far  to  constrain  their 
young  and  buoyant  imaginations  as  to  merit  the 
beautiful  eulogium  of  the  English  poet;  while 
many  more  comparatively,  from  the  time  of  Juve- 
nal downward,  fortunately  for  the  world,  have 
been  willing  to  sacrifice  the  affections  plighted  to 
Themis  on  the  altars  of  the  Muse. 

Brown's  resolution  at  this  crisis  caused  sincere 
regret  to  his  friends,  which  they  could  not  conceal, 
on  seeing  him  thus  suddenly  turn  from  the  path 
of  honorable  fame  at  the  very  moment  when  he 
was  prepared  to  enter  on  it.  His  prospects,  but 
lately  so  brilliant,  seemed  now  overcast  with  a 
deep  gloom.  The  embarrassments  of  his  situa- 
tion had  also  a  most  unfavorable  effect  on  his 
o\^Tl  mind.  Instead  of  the  careful  discipline  to 
which  it  had  been  lately  subjected,  it  was  now 
left  to  rove  at  large  wherever  caprice  should  dic- 
tate, and  waste  itself  on  those  romantic  reveries 
and  speculations  to  which  he  was  naturally  too 
much  addicted.  This  was  the  period  when  the 
French  Revolution  was  in  its  heat,  and  the  awful 
convulsion  experienced  in  one  unhappy  country 
seemed  to  be  felt  in  every  quarter  of  the  globe; 
men  grew  familiar  with  the  wildest  paradoxes. 


12  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

and  the  spirit  of  innovation  menaced  the  oldest 
and  best-estabhshed  principles  in  morals  and 
government.  Brown's  inquisitive  and  specula- 
tive mind  partook  of  the  prevailing  scepticism. 
Some  of  his  compositions,  and  especially  one 
on  the  Rights  of  Women,  published  in  1797, 
show  to  what  extravagance  a  benevolent  mind 
may  be  led  by  fastening  too  exclusively  on  the 
contemplation  of  the  evils  of  existing  institu- 
tions and  indulging  in  indefinite  dreams  of  per- 
fectibility. 

There  is  no  period  of  existence  when  the  spirit 
of  a  man  is  more  apt  to  be  depressed  than  when 
he  is  about  to  quit  the  safe  and  quiet  harbor  in 
which  he  has  rode  in  safety  from  childhood,  and 
to  launch  on  the  dark  and  unknown  ocean  where 
so  many  a  gallant  bark  has  gone  down  before  him. 
How  much  must  this  disquietude  be  increased  in 
the  case  of  one  who,  like  Brown,  has  thrown  away 
the  very  chart  and  compass  by  which  he  was  pre- 
pared to  guide  himself  through  the  doubtful  perils 
of  the  voyage!  How  heavily  the  gloom  of  de- 
spondency fell  on  his  spirits  at  this  time  is  attested 
by  various  extracts  from  his  private  correspond- 
ence. "  As  for  me,"  he  says,  in  one  of  his  letters, 
"  I  long  ago  discovered  that  Nature  had  not  quali- 
fied me  for  an  actor  on  this  stage.  The  nature  of 
my  education  only  added  to  these  disqualifications, 
and  I  experienced  all  those  deviations  from  the 
centre  which  arise  when  all  our  lessons  are  taken 
from  books,  and  the  scholar  makes  his  own  char- 
acter the  conament.  A  happy  destiny,  indeed, 
brought  me  to  the  knowledge  of  two  or  three 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  13 

minds  which  Nature  had  fashioned  in  the  same 
mould  with  my  own,  but  these  are  gone.     And, 

0  God!  enable  me  to  wait  the  moment  when  it  is 
thy  will  that  I  should  follow  them."  In  another 
epistle  he  remarks,  "  I  have  not  been  deficient  in 
the  pursuit  of  that  necessary  branch  of  knowl- 
edge, the  study  of  myself.  I  will  not  explain  the 
result,  for  have  I  not  already  sufficiently  endeav- 
ored to  make  my  friends  unhappy  by  communi- 
cations which,  though  they  might  easily  be  in- 
jurious, could  not  be  of  any  possible  advantage? 

1  really,  dear  W.,  regret  that  period  when  your 
pity  was  first  excited  in  my  favor.  I  sincerely 
lament  that  I  ever  gave  you  reason  to  imagine 
that  I  was  not  so  happy  as  a  gay  indifference  with 
regard  to  the  present,  stubborn  f orgetf ulness  with 
respect  to  the  uneasy  past,  and  excursions  into 
lightsome  futurity  could  make  me ;  for  what  end, 
what  useful  purposes,  were  promoted  by  the  dis- 
covery? It  could  not  take  away  from  the  num- 
ber of  the  unhappy,  but  only  add  to  it,  by  making 
those  who  loved  me  participate  in  my  uneasiness, 
which  each  participation,  so  far  from  tending  to 
diminish,  would  in  reality  increase,  by  adding 
those  regrets,  of  which  I  had  been  author  in  them, 
to  my  own  original  stock."  It  is  painful  to  wit- 
ness the  struggles  of  a  generous  spirit  endeavor- 
ing to  suppress  the  anguish  thus  involuntarily 
escaping  in  the  warmth  of  affectionate  inter- 
course. This  becomes  still  more  striking  in  the 
contrast  exhibited  between  the  assumed  cheer- 
fulness of  much  of  his  correspondence  at  this 
period  and  the  uniform  melancholy  tone  of  his 


14.  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

private  journal,  the  genuine  record  of  his  emo- 
tions. 

Fortunately,  his  taste,  refined  by  intellectual 
culture,  and  the  elevation  and  spotless  purity  of 
his  moral  principles,  raised  him  above  the  tempta- 
tions of  sensual  indulgence,  in  which  minds  of 
weaker  mould  might  have  sought  a  temporary 
relief.  His  soul  was  steeled  against  the  grosser 
seductions  of  appetite.  The  only  avenue  through 
which  his  principles  could  in  any  way  be  assailed 
was  the  understanding;  and  it  would  appear, 
from  some  dark  hints  in  his  correspondence  at  this 
period,  that  the  rash  idea  of  relieving  himself 
from  the  weight  of  earthly  sorrows  by  some  volun- 
tary deed  of  violence  had  more  than  once  flitted 
across  his  mind.  It  is  pleasing  to  observe  with 
what  beautiful  modesty  and  simplicity  of  char- 
acter he  refers  his  abstinence  from  coarser  indul- 
gences to  his  constitutional  infirmities,  and  conse- 
quent disinclination  to  them,  which,  in  truth,  could 
be  only  imputed  to  the  excellence  of  his  heart  and 
his  understanding.  In  one  of  his  letters  he  re- 
marks "  that  the  benevolence  of  Nature  rendered 
him,  in  a  manner,  an  exile  from  many  of  the  temp- 
tations that  infest  the  minds  of  ardent  youth. 
Whatever  his  wishes  might  have  been,  his  benevo- 
lent destiny  had  prevented  him  from  running  into 
the  frivolities  of  youth."  He  ascribes  to  this  cause 
his  love  of  letters,  and  his  predominant  anxiety  to 
excel  in  whatever  was  a  glorious  subject  of  com- 
petition. "  Had  he  been  furnished  with  the  nerves 
and  muscles  of  his  comrades,  it  was  very  far  from 
impossible  that  he  might  have  rehnquished  intel- 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  15 

lectual  pleasures.  Nature  had  benevolently  ren- 
dered him  incapable  of  encountering  such  severe 
trials." 

Brown's  principal  resources  for  dissipating  the 
melancholy  which  hung  over  him  were  his  inex- 
tinguishable love  of  letters,  and  the  society  of  a 
few  friends,  to  whom  congeniality  of  taste  and 
temper  had  united  him  from  early  years.  In  addi- 
tion to  these  resources,  we  may  mention  his  fond- 
ness for  pedestrian  rambles,  which  sometimes  were 
of  several  weeks'  duration.  In  the  course  of  these 
excursions,  the  circle  of  his  acquaintance  and 
friends  was  gradually  enlarged.  In  the  city  of 
New  York,  in  particular,  he  contracted  an  inti- 
macy with  several  individuals  of  similar  age  and 
kindred  mould  with  himself.  Among  these,  his 
earliest  associate  was  Dr.  E.  H.  Smith,  a  young 
gentleman  of  great  promise  in  the  medical  pro- 
fession. Brown  had  become  known  to  him  during 
the  residence  of  the  latter  as  a  student  in  Phila- 
delphia. By  him  our  hero  was  introduced  to  Mr. 
Dunlap,  who  has  survived  to  commemorate  the 
virtues  of  his  friend  in  a  biography  already 
noticed,  and  to  Mr.  Johnson,  the  accomplished 
author  of  the  New  York  Law  Reports.  The 
society  of  these  friends  had  sufficient  attractions 
to  induce  him  to  repeat  his  visit  to  New  York, 
until  at  length,  in  the  beginning  of  1798,  he  may 
be  said  to  have  established  his  permanent  resi- 
dence there,  passing  much  of  his  time  under  the 
same  roof  with  them.  His  amiable  manners  and 
accomplishments  soon  recommended  him  to  the 
notice  of  other  eminent  individuals.    He  became 


16  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

a  member  of  a  literary  society,  called  the  Friendly 
Club,  comprehending  names  which  have  since  shed 
a  distinguished  lustre  over  the  various  walks  of 
literature  and  science. 

The  spirits  of  Brown  seemed  to  be  exalted  in 
this  new  atmosphere.  His  sensibilities  found  a 
grateful  exercise  in  the  sympathies  of  friendship, 
and  the  powers  of  his  mind  were  called  into  action 
by  collision  with  others  of  similar  tone  with  his 
own.  His  memory  was  enriched  with  the  stores 
of  various  reading,  hitherto  conducted  at  random, 
with  no  higher  object  than  temporary  amusement 
or  the  gratification  of  an  indefinite  curiosity.  He 
now  concentrated  his  attention  on  some  deter- 
minate object,  and  proposed  to  give  full  scope  to 
his  various  talents  and  acquisitions  in  the  career 
of  an  author,  as  yet  so  little  travelled  in  our  own 
country. 

His  first  publication  was  that  before  noticed, 
entitled  "Alcuin,  a  dialogue  on  the  Rights  of 
Women."  It  exhibits  the  crude  and  fanciful 
speculations  of  a  theorist  who,  in  his  dreams  of 
optimism,  charges  exclusively  on  human  institu- 
tions the  imperfections  necessarily  incident  to 
human  nature.  The  work,  with  all  its  ingenuity, 
made  little  impression  on  the  public :  it  found  few 
purchasers,  and  made,  it  may  be  presumed,  still 
fewer  converts. 

He  soon  after  began  a  romance,  which  he  never 
completed,  from  which  his  biographer  has  given 
copious  extracts.  It  is  conducted  in  the  epistolary 
form,  and,  although  exhibiting  little  of  his  subse- 
quent power  and  passion,  is  recommended  by  a 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  IT 

graceful  and  easy  manner  of  narration,  more  at- 
tractive than  the  more  elaborate  and  artificial  style 
of  his  latter  novel. 

This  abortive  attempt  was  succeeded,  in  1798, 
by  the  publication  of  Wieland,  the  first  of  that 
remarkable  series  of  fictions  which  flowed  in  such 
rapid  succession  from  his  pen  in  this  and  the  three 
following  years.  In  this  romance,  the  author, 
deviating  from  the  usual  track  of  domestic  or  his- 
toric incident,  proposed  to  delineate  the  powerful 
workings  of  passion  displayed  by  a  mind  consti- 
tutionally excitable,  under  the  control  of  some 
terrible  and  mysterious  agency.  The  scene  is  laid 
in  Pennsylvania.  The  action  takes  place  in  a 
family  by  the  name  of  Wieland,  the  principal 
member  of  which  had  inherited  a  melancholy  and 
somewhat  superstitious  constitution  of  mind, 
which  his  habitual  reading  and  contemplation 
deepened  into  a  calm  but  steady  fanaticism.  This 
temper  is  nourished  still  farther  by  the  occurrence 
of  certain  inexplicable  circumstances  of  ominous 
import.  Strange  voices  are  heard  by  different 
members  of  the  family,  sometimes  warning  them 
of  danger,  sometimes  announcing  events  seeming 
beyond  the  reach  of  human  knowledge.  The  still 
and  solemn  hours  of  night  are  disturbed  by  the  un- 
earthly summons.  The  other  actors  of  the  drama 
are  thrown  into  strange  perplexity,  and  an  under- 
plot of  events  is  curiously  entangled  by  the  occur- 
rence of  unaccountable  sights  as  well  as  sounds. 
By  the  heated  fancy  of  Wieland  they  are  re- 
ferred to  supernatural  agency.  A  fearful  des- 
tiny seems  to  preside  over  the  scene,  and  to  carry 

Vol.  I.— 2 


18  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

the  actors  onward  to  some  awful  catastrophe.  At 
length  the  hour  arrives.  A  solemn,  mysterious 
voice  announces  to  Wieland  that  he  is  now  called 
on  to  testify  his  submission  to  the  divine  will  by 
the  sacrifice  of  his  earthly  affections, — to  surren- 
der up  the  affectionate  partner  of  his  bosom,  on 
whom  he  had  reposed  all  his  hopes  of  happiness 
in  this  life.  He  obeys  the  mandate  of  Heaven. 
The  stormy  conflict  of  passion  into  which  his  mind 
is  thrown,  as  the  fearful  sacrifice  he  is  about  to 
make  calls  up  all  the  tender  remembrances  of  con- 
jugal fidelity  and  love,  is  painted  with  frightful 
strength  of  coloring.  Although  it  presents,  on 
the  whole,  as  pertinent  an  example  as  we  could 
offer  from  any  of  Brown's  writings  of  the  pecu- 
liar power  and  vividness  of  his  conceptions,  the 
whole  scene  is  too  long  for  insertion  here.  We 
will  mutilate  it,  however,  by  a  brief  extract,  as  an 
illustration  of  our  author's  manner,  more  satis- 
factory than  any  criticism  can  be.  Wieland,  after 
receiving  the  fatal  mandate,  is  represented  in  an 
apartment  alone  with  his  wife.  His  courage,  or, 
rather,  his  desperation,  fails  him,  and  he  sends 
her,  on  some  pretext,  from  the  chamber.  An  in- 
terval, during  which  his  insane  passions  have  time 
to  rally,  ensues. 

"  She  returned  with  a  light;  I  led  the  way  to 
the  chamber ;  she  looked  round  her ;  she  lifted  the 
curtain  of  the  bed;  she  saw  nothing.  At  length 
she  fixed  inquiring  eyes  upon  me.  The  light  now 
enabled  her  to  discover  in  my  visage  what  dark- 
ness had  hitherto  concealed.  Her  cares  were  now 
transferred  from  my  sister  to  myself,  and  she 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  19 

said,  in  a  tremulous  voice,  '  Wieland !  you  are  not 
well;  what  ails  you?  Can  I  do  nothing  for  you? ' 
That  accents  and  looks  so  winning  should  disarm 
me  of  my  resolution  was  to  be  expected.  My 
thoughts  were  thrown  anew  into  anarchy.  I 
spread  my  hand  before  my  eyes,  that  I  might  not 
see  her,  and  answered  only  by  groans.  She  took 
my  other  hand  between  hers,  and,  pressing  it  to 
her  heart,  spoke  with  that  voice  which  had  ever 
swayed  my  will  and  wafted  away  sorrow.  '  My 
friend!  my  soul's  friend!  tell  me  thy  cause  of 
grief.  Do  I  not  merit  to  partake  'wdth  thee  in  thy 
cares?    Am  I  not  thy  wife? ' 

"  This  was  too  much.  I  broke  from  her  em- 
brace, and  retired  to  a  corner  of  the  room.  In 
this  pause,  courage  was  once  more  infused  into 
me.  I  resolved  to  execute  my  duty.  She  fol- 
lowed me,  and  renewed  her  passionate  entreaty  to 
know  the  cause  of  my  distress. 

"  I  raised  my  head  and  regarded  her  with  stead- 
fast looks.  I  muttered  something  about  death, 
and  the  injunctions  of  my  duty.  At  these  words 
she  shrunk  back,  and  looked  at  me  with  a  new 
expression  of  anguish.  After  a  pause,  she  clasped 
her  hands  and  exclaimed, 

"*0  Wieland!  Wieland!  God  grant  that  I 
am  mistaken;  but  surely  something  is  wrong.  I 
see  it;  it  is  too  plain;  thou  art  undone — lost  to 
me  and  to  thyself.'  At  the  same  time  she  gazed 
on  my  features  with  intensest  anxiety,  in  hope  that 
different  symptoms  would  take  place.  I  replied 
with  vehemence,  'Undone!  No;  my  duty  is 
known,  and  I  thank  my  God  that  my  cowardice 


20  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

is  now  vanquished,  and  I  have  power  to  fulfil  it. 
Catharine !  I  pity  the  weakness  of  nature ;  I  pity 
thee,  but  must  not  spare.  Thy  life  is  claimed 
from  my  hands :   thou  must  die ! ' 

*'  Fear  was  now  added  to  her  grief.  '  What 
mean  you?  Why  talk  you  of  death?  Bethink 
yourself,  Wieland;  bethink  yourself,  and  this  fit 
will  pass.  O!  why  came  I  hither?  Why  did  you 
drag  me  hither? ' 

"  '  I  brought  thee  hither  to  fulfil  a  divine  com- 
mand. I  am  appointed  thy  destroyer,  and  destroy 
thee  I  must.'  Saying  this,  I  seized  her  wrists. 
She  shrieked  aloud,  and  endeavored  to  free  her- 
self from  my  grasp,  but  her  efforts  were  vain. 

"  '  Surely,  surely,  Wieland,  thou  dost  not  mean 
it.  Am  I  not  thy  wife?  and  wouldst  thou  kill 
me?  Thou  wilt  not;  and  yet — I  see — thou  art 
Wieland  no  longer!  A  fury,  resistless  and  hor- 
rible, possesses  thee:  spare  me — spare — help — 
help—' 

"  Till  her  breath  was  stopped  she  shrieked  for 
help — for  mercy.  When  she  could  speak  no 
longer,  her  gestures,  her  looks,  appealed  to  my 
compassion.  My  accursed  hand  was  irresolute 
and  tremulous.  I  meant  thy  death  to  be  sudden, 
thy  struggles  to  be  brief.  Alas!  my  heart  was 
infirm,  my  resolves  mutable.  Thrice  I  slackened 
my  grasp,  and  life  kept  its  hold,  though  in  the 
midst  of  pangs.  Her  eyeballs  started  from  their 
sockets.  Grimness  and  distortion  took  place  of 
all  that  used  to  bewitch  me  into  transport  and  sub- 
due me  into  reverence. 

"  I  was  commissioned  to  kill  thee,  but  not  to 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  21 

torment  thee  with  the  foresight  of  thy  death;  not 
to  multiply  thy  fears  and  prolong  thy  agonies. 
Haggard,  and  pale,  and  hfeless,  at  length  thou 
ceasedst  to  contend  "v^ith  thy  destiny. 

"  This  was  a  moment  of  triumph.  Thus  had  I 
successfully  subdued  the  stubbornness  of  human 
passions;  the  victim  which  had  been  demanded 
was  given;   the  deed  was  done  past  recall. 

"  I  lifted  the  corpse  in  my  arms,  and  laid  it  on 
the  bed.  I  gazed  upon  it  with  delight.  Such  was 
the  elation  of  my  thoughts  that  I  even  broke  into 
laughter.  I  clapped  my  hands,  and  exclaimed, 
'  It  is  done !  My  sacred  duty  is  fulfilled !  To 
that  I  have  sacrificed,  O  my  God!  thy  last  and 
best  gift,  my  wife! ' 

"  For  a  while  I  thus  soared  above  frailty.  I 
imagined  I  had  set  myself  forever  beyond  the 
reach  of  selfishness,  but  my  imaginations  were 
false.  This  rapture  quickly  subsided.  I  looked 
again  at  my  wife.  My  joyous  ebullitions  van- 
ished, and  I  asked  myself  who  it  was  whom  I  saw. 
Methought  it  could  not  be  Catharine.  It  could 
not  be  the  woman  who  had  lodged  for  years  in  my 
heart;  who  had  slept  nightly  in  my  bosom;  who 
had  borne  in  her  womb,  who  had  fostered  at  her 
breast,  the  beings  who  called  me  father;  whom  I 
had  watched  with  delight,  and  cherished  with  a 
fondness  ever  new  and  perpetually  growing:  it 
could  not  be  the  same. 

"  Where  was  her  bloom?  These  deadly  and 
blood-suffused  orbs  but  ill  resemble  the  azure  and 
ecstatic  tenderness  of  her  eyes.  The  lucid  stream 
that  meandered  over  that  bosom,  the  glow  of  love 


22  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

that  was  wont  to  sit  upon  that  cheek,  are  much 
unlike  these  hvid  stains  and  this  hideous  deform- 
ity. Alas!  these  were  the  traces  of  agony:  the 
gripe  of  the  assassin  had  been  here! 

"  I  will  not  dwell  upon  my  lapse  into  desperate 
and  outrageous  sorrow.  The  breath  of  Heaven 
that  sustained  me  was  withdrawn,  and  I  sunk  into 
mere  man.  I  leaped  from  the  floor;  I  dashed  my 
head  against  the  wall;  I  uttered  screams  of  hor- 
ror; I  panted  after  torment  and  pain.  Eternal 
fire  and  the  bickerings  of  hell,  compared  with  what 
I  felt,  were  music  and  a  bed  of  roses. 

"  I  thank  my  God  that  this  degeneracy  was 
transient, — that  he  deigned  once  more  to  raise  me 
aloft.  I  thought  upon  what  I  had  done  as  a  sac- 
rifice to  duty,  and  was  calm.  My  wife  was  dead; 
but  I  reflected  that,  though  this  source  of  human 
consolation  was  closed,  yet  others  were  still  open. 
If  the  transports  of  a  husband  were  no  more,  the 
feelings  of  a  father  had  still  scope  for  exercise. 
When  remembrance  of  their  mother  should  excite 
too  keen  a  pang,  I  would  look  upon  them  and  be 
comforted. 

"  While  I  revolved  these  ideas,  new  warmth 
flowed  in  upon  my  heart.  I  was  wrong.  These 
feelings  were  the  gro\^i:h  of  selfishness.  Of  this 
I  was  not  aware;  and,  to  dispel  the  mist  that 
obscured  my  perceptions,  a  new  effulgence  and 
a  new  mandate  were  necessary. 

"  From  these  thoughts  I  was  recalled  by  a  ray 
that  was  shot  into  the  room.  A  voice  spake  like 
that  which  I  had  before  heard,  *  Thou  hast  done 
well;   but  all  is  not  done — the  sacrifice  is  incom- 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  23 

plete — thy  children  must  be  offered — they  must 
perish  with  their  mother! '  " 

This,  too,  is  accompHshed  by  the  same  remorse- 
less arm,  although  the  author  has  judiciously  re- 
frained from  attempting  to  prolong  the  note  of 
feeling,  struck  with  so  powerful  a  hand,  by  the 
recital  of  the  particulars.  The  wretched  fanatic 
is  brought  to  trial  for  the  murder,  but  is  acquitted 
on  the  ground  of  insanity.  The  illusion  which 
has  bewildered  him  at  length  breaks  on  his  under- 
standing in  its  whole  truth.  He  cannot  sustain 
the  shock,  and  the  tragic  tale  closes  with  the  suicide 
of  the  victim  of  superstition  and  imposture.  The 
key  to  the  whole  of  this  mysterious  agency  which 
controls  the  circumstances  of  the  story  is — ven- 
triloquism! ventriloquism  exerted  for  the  very 
purpose  by  a  human  fiend,  from  no  motives  of 
revenge  or  hatred,  but  pure  diabolical  malice,  or, 
as  he  would  make  us  believe,  and  the  author  seems 
willing  to  endorse  this  absurd  version  of  it,  as  a 
mere  practical  joke!  The  reader,  who  has  been 
gorged  with  this  feast  of  horrors,  is  tempted  to 
throw  away  the  book  in  disgust  at  finding  himself 
the  dupe  of  such  paltry  jugglery;  which,  what- 
ever sense  be  given  to  the  term  ventriloquism,  is 
altogether  incompetent  to  the  various  phenomena 
of  sight  and  sound  with  which  the  story  is  so 
plentifully  seasoned.  We  can  feel  the  force  of 
Dryden's  imprecation  when  he  cursed  the  invent- 
ors of  those  fifth  acts  which  are  bound  to  unravel 
all  the  fine  mesh  of  impossibilities  which  the 
author's  wits  had  been  so  busy  entangling  in  the 
four  preceding. 


24.  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

The  explication  of  the  mysteries  of  Wieland 
naturally  suggests  the  question  how  far  an  author 
is  bound  to  explain  the  swpernaturalities,  if  we 
may  so  call  them,  of  his  fictions,  and  whether  it  is 
not  better,  on  the  whole,  to  trust  to  the  willing 
superstition  and  credulity  of  the  reader  (of  which 
there  is  perhaps  store  enough  in  almost  every 
bosom,  at  the  present  enlightened  day  even,  for 
poetical  purposes)  than  to  attempt  a  solution  on 
purely  natural  or  mechanical  principles.  It  was 
thought  no  harm  for  the  ancients  to  bring  the  use 
of  machinery  into  their  epics,  and  a  similar  free- 
dom was  conceded  to  the  old  English  dramatists, 
whose  ghosts  and  witches  were  placed  in  the  much 
more  perilous  predicament  of  being  subjected  to 
the  scrutiny  of  the  spectator,  whose  senses  are  not 
near  so  likely  to  be  duped  as  the  sensitive  and 
excited  imagination  of  the  reader  in  his  solitary 
chamber.  It  must  be  admitted,  however,  that  the 
public  of  those  days,  when  the 

"  Undoubting  mind 
Believed  the  magic  wonders  that  were  sung," 

were  admirably  seasoned  for  the  action  of  super- 
stition in  all  forms,  and  furnished,  therefore,  a 
most  enviable  audience  for  the  melodramatic  art- 
ist, whether  dramatist  or  romance-writer.  But  all 
this  is  changed.  No  witches  ride  the  air  nowa- 
days, and  fairies  no  longer  "  dance  their  rounds 
by  the  pale  moonlight,"  as  the  worthy  Bishop 
Corbet,  indeed,  lamented  a  century  and  a  half  ago. 
Still,  it  may  be  allowed,  perhaps,  if  the  scene 
is  laid  in  some  remote  age  or  country,  to  borrow 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  25 

the  ancient  superstitions  of  the  place,  and  incor- 
porate them  into,  or,  at  least,  color  the  story  with 
them,  without  shocking  the  well-bred  prejudices 
of  the  modern  reader.  Sir  Walter  Scott  has  done 
this  ^\dth  good  effect  in  more  than  one  of  his 
romances,  as  every  one  will  readily  call  to  mind. 
A  fine  example  occurs  in  the  Boden  Glass  appa- 
rition in  Waverly,  which  the  great  novelist,  far 
from  attempting  to  explain  on  any  philosophical 
principles,  or  even  by  an  intimation  of  its  being 
the  mere  creation  of  a  feverish  imagination,  has 
left  as  he  found  it,  trusting  that  the  reader's  poetic 
feeUng  will  readily  accommodate  itself  to  the 
popular  superstitions  of  the  country  he  is  depict- 
ing. This  reserve  on  his  part,  indeed,  arising 
from  a  truly  poetic  view  of  the  subject  and  an 
honest  reUance  on  a  similar  spirit  in  his  reader, 
has  laid  him  open,  with  some  matter-of-fact  peo- 
ple, to  the  imputation  of  not  being  wholly  un- 
touched himself  by  the  national  superstitions. 
Yet  how  much  would  the  whole  scene  have  lost  in 
its  permanent  effect  if  the  author  had  attempted 
an  explanation  of  the  apparition  on  the  ground 
of  an  optical  illusion  not  infrequent  among  the 
mountain-mists  of  the  Highlands,  or  any  other  of 
the  ingenious  solutions  so  readily  at  the  command 
of  the  thoroughbred  story-teller ! 

It  must  be  acknowledged,  however,  that  this 
way  of  solving  the  riddles  of  romance  would 
hardly  be  admissible  in  a  story  draT^n  from  famil- 
iar scenes  and  situations  in  modern  life,  and  espe- 
cially in  our  own  country.  The  lights  of  educa- 
tion are  flung  too  bright  and  broad  over  the  land 


26  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

to  allow  any  lurking-hole  for  the  shadows  of  a 
twilight  age.  So  much  the  worse  for  the  poet  and 
the  novelist.  Their  province  must  now  be  confined 
to  poor  human  nature,  without  meddling  with  the 
"  Gorgons  and  chimeras  dire "  which  floated 
through  the  bewildered  brains  of  our  forefathers, 
at  least  on  the  other  side  of  the  water.  At  any 
rate,  if  a  writer,  in  this  broad  sunshine,  ventures 
on  any  sort  of  diablerie,  he  is  forced  to  explain  it 
by  all  the  thousand  contrivances  of  trap-doors, 
secret  passages,  waxen  images,  and  other  make- 
shifts from  the  property-room  of  Mrs.  Radcliffe 
and  Company. 

Brown,  indeed,  has  resorted  to  a  somewhat 
higher  mode  of  elucidating  his  mysteries  by  a  re- 
markable phenomenon  of  our  nature.  But  the 
misfortune  of  all  these  attempts  to  account  for 
the  marvels  of  the  story  by  natural  or  mechanical 
causes  is,  that  they  are  very  seldom  satisfactory, 
or  competent  to  their  object.  This  is  eminently 
the  case  with  the  ventriloquism  in  Wieland.  Even 
where  they  are  competent,  it  may  be  doubted 
whether  the  reader  who  has  suffered  his  credulous 
fancy  to  be  entranced  by  the  spell  of  the  magician 
will  be  gratified  to  learn,  at  the  end,  by  what  cheap 
mechanical  contrivance  he  has  been  duped.  How- 
ever this  may  be,  it  is  certain  that  a  very  unfavor- 
able effect,  in  another  respect,  is  produced  on  his 
mind,  after  he  is  made  acquainted  with  the  nature 
of  the  secret  spring  by  which  the  machinery  is 
played,  more  especially  when  one  leading  circum- 
stance, like  ventriloquism  in  Wieland,  is  made  the 
master-key,  as  it  were,  by  which  all  the  mysteries 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  27 

are  to  be  unlocked  and  opened  at  once.  With  this 
explanation  at  hand,  it  is  extremely  difficult  to 
rise  to  that  sensation  of  mysterious  awe  and  appre- 
hension on  which  so  much  of  the  sublimity  and 
general  effect  of  the  narrative  necessarily  de- 
pends. Instead  of  such  feelings,  the  only  ones 
which  can  enable  us  to  do  full  justice  to  the 
author's  conceptions,  we  sometimes,  on  the  con- 
trary, may  detect  a  smile  lurking  in  the  corner  of 
the  mouth  as  we  peruse  scenes  of  positive  power, 
from  the  contrast  obviously  suggested  of  the  im- 
potence of  the  apparatus  and  the  portentous  char- 
acter of  the  results.  The  critic,  therefore,  pos- 
sessed of  the  real  key  to  the  mysteries  of  the  story, 
if  he  would  do  justice  to  his  author's  merits,  must 
divest  himself,  as  it  were,  of  his  previous  knowl- 
edge, by  fastening  his  attention  on  the  results,  to 
the  exclusion  of  the  insignificant  means  by  which 
they  are  achieved.  He  will  not  always  find  this 
an  easy  matter. 

But  to  return  from  this  rambling  digression. 
In  the  following  year,  1799,  Brown  published  his 
second  novel,  entitled  Ormond.  The  story  pre- 
sents few  of  the  deeply  agitating  scenes  and  pow- 
erful bursts  of  passion  which  distinguish  the  first. 
It  is  designed  to  exhibit  a  model  of  surpassing 
excellence  in  a  female  rising  superior  to  all  the 
shocks  of  adversity  and  the  more  perilous  blan- 
dishments of  seduction,  and  who,  as  the  scene 
grows  darker  and  darker  around  her,  seems  to 
illumine  the  whole  with  the  radiance  of  her  celes- 
tial virtues.  The  reader  is  reminded  of  the  "  pa- 
tient Griselda,"  so  delicately  portrayed  by  the 


28  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

pencils  of  Boccaccio  and  Chaucer.  It  must  be 
admitted,  however,  that  the  contemplation  of  such 
a  character  in  the  abstract  is  more  imposing  than 
the  minute  details  by  which  we  attain  to  the  knowl- 
edge of  it ;  and  although  there  is  nothing,  we  are 
told,  which  the  gods  looked  down  upon  with  more 
satisfaction  than  a  brave  mind  struggling  with 
the  storms  of  adversity,  yet,  when  these  come  in 
the  guise  of  poverty  and  all  the  train  of  teasing 
annoyances  in  domestic  life,  the  tale,  if  long  pro- 
tracted, too  often  produces  a  sensation  of  weari- 
ness scarcely  to  be  compensated  by  the  moral 
grandeur  of  the  spectacle. 

The  appearance  of  these  two  novels  constitutes 
an  epoch  in  the  ornamental  literature  of  America. 
They  are  the  first  decidedly  successful  attempts 
in  the  walk  of  romantic  fiction.  They  are  still 
farther  remarkable  as  illustrating  the  character 
and  state  of  society  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic, 
instead  of  resorting  to  the  exhausted  springs  of 
European  invention.  These  circumstances,  as 
well  as  the  uncommon  powers  they  displayed  both 
of  conception  and  execution,  recommended  them 
to  the  notice  of  the  literary  world,  although  their 
philosophical  method  of  dissecting  passion  and 
analyzing  motives  of  action  placed  them  somewhat 
beyond  the  reach  of  vulgar  popularity.  Brown 
was  sensible  of  the  favorable  impression  which  he 
had  made,  and  mentions  it  in  one  of  his  epistles 
to  his  brother  with  his  usual  unaffected  modesty: 
"  I  add  somewhat,  though  not  so  much  as  I  might 
if  I  were  so  inclined,  to  the  number  of  my  friends. 
I  find  to  be  the  writer  of  Wieland  and  Ormond 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  29 

is  a  greater  recommendation  than  I  ever  imagined 
it  would  be." 

In  the  course  of  the  same  year,  the  quiet  tenor 
of  his  hf  e  was  interrupted  by  the  visitation  of  that 
fearful  pestilence,  the  yellow  fever,  which  had  for 
several  successive  years  made  its  appearance  in 
the  city  of  New  York,  but  which  in  1798  fell  upon 
it  with  a  violence  similar  to  that  with  which  it  had 
desolated  Philadelphia  in  1793.  Brown  had  taken 
the  precaution  of  withdrawing  from  the  latter 
city,  where  he  then  resided,  on  its  first  appearance 
there.  He  prolonged  his  stay  in  New  York,  how- 
ever, relying  on  the  healthiness  of  the  quarter  of 
the  town  where  he  Uved,  and  the  habitual  abste- 
miousness of  his  diet.  His  friend  Smith  was 
necessarily  detained  there  by  the  duties  of  his  pro- 
fession; and  Brown,  in  answer  to  the  reiterated 
importunities  of  his  absent  relatives  to  withdraw 
from  the  infected  city,  refused  to  do  so,  on  the 
ground  that  his  personal  services  might  be  re- 
quired by  the  friends  who  remained  in  it, — a  dis- 
interestedness well  meriting  the  strength  of  at- 
tachment which  he  excited  in  the  bosom  of  his 
companions. 

Unhappily,  Brown  was  right  in  his  prognostics, 
and  his  services  were  too  soon  required  in  behalf 
of  his  friend  Dr.  Smith,  who  fell  a  victim  to  his 
own  benevolence,  having  caught  the  fatal  malady 
from  an  Italian  gentleman,  a  stranger  in  the  city, 
whom  he  received,  when  infected  with  the  disease, 
into  his  house,  relinquishing  to  him  his  own  apart- 
ment. Brown  had  the  melancholy  satisfaction  of 
performing  the  last  sad  offices  of  affection  to  his 


30  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

dying  friend.  He  himself  soon  became  affected 
with  the  same  disorder;  and  it  was  not  till  after  a 
severe  illness  that  he  so  far  recovered  as  to  be  able 
to  transfer  his  residence  to  Perth  Amboy,  the 
abode  of  Mr.  Dunlap,  where  a  pure  and  invigo- 
rating atmosphere,  aided  by  the  kind  attentions 
of  his  host,  gradually  restored  him  to  a  sufficient 
degree  of  health  and  spirits  for  the  prosecution  of 
his  literary  labors. 

The  spectacle  he  had  witnessed  made  too  deep 
an  impression  on  him  to  be  readily  effaced,  and  he 
resolved  to  transfer  his  own  conceptions  of  it, 
while  yet  fresh,  to  the  page  of  fiction,  or,  as  it 
might  rather  be  called,  of  history,  for  the  purpose, 
as  he  intimates  in  his  preface,  of  imparting  to 
others  some  of  the  fruits  of  the  melancholy  lesson 
he  had  himself  experienced.  Such  was  the  origin 
of  his  next  novel,  Arthur  Mervyn;  or.  Memoirs 
of  the  Year  1793.  This  was  the  fatal  year  of  the 
yellow  fever  in  Philadelphia.  The  action  of  the 
story  is  chiefly  confined  to  that  city,  but  seems  to 
be  prepared  with  little  contrivance,  on  no  regular 
or  systematic  plan,  consisting  simply  of  a  succes- 
sion of  incidents,  having  little  cohesion  except  in 
reference  to  the  hero,  but  affording  situations  of 
great  interest  and  frightful  fidelity  of  coloring. 
The  pestilence  wasting  a  thriving  and  populous 
city  has  furnished  a  topic  for  more  than  one  great 
master.  It  will  be  remembered  as  the  terror  of 
every  school-boy  in  the  pages  of  Thucydides;  it 
forms  the  gloomy  portal  to  the  light  and  airy 
fictions  of  Boccaccio;  and  it  has  furnished  a  sub- 
ject for  the  graphic  pencil  of  the  English  novehst 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  31 

De  Foe,  the  only  one  of  the  thi-ee  who  never  wit- 
nessed the  horrors  which  he  paints,  but  whose  fic- 
tions wear  an  aspect  of  reahty  which  history  can 
rarely  reach. 

Brown  has  succeeded  in  giving  the  same  terrible 
distinctness  to  his  impressions  by  means  of  indi- 
vidual portraiture.  He  has,  however,  not  confined 
himself  to  this,  but,  by  a  variety  of  touches,  lays 
open  to  our  view  the  whole  interior  of  the  city  of 
the  plague.  Instead  of  expatiating  on  the  loath- 
some symptoms  and  physical  ravages  of  the  dis- 
ease, he  selects  the  most  striking  moral  circum- 
stances which  attend  it ;  he  dwells  on  the  withering 
sensation  that  falls  so  heavily  on  the  heart  in  the 
streets  of  the  once  busy  and  crowded  city,  now 
deserted  and  silent,  save  only  where  the  wheels  of 
the  melancholy  hearse  are  heard  to  rumble  along 
the  pavement.  Our  author  not  unfrequently  suc- 
ceeds in  conveying  more  to  the  heart  by  the  skilful 
selection  of  a  single  circumstance  than  would  have 
flowed  from  a  multitude  of  petty  details.  It  is 
the  art  of  the  great  masters  of  poetry  and 
painting. 

The  same  year  in  which  Brown  produced  the 
first  part  of  "  Arthur  Mervyn,"  he  entered  on  the 
publication  of  a  periodical  entitled  The  Monthly 
Magazine  and  American  Review,  a  work  that 
during  its  brief  existence,  which  terminated  in  the 
following  year,  afforded  abundant  evidence  of  its 
editor's  versatility  of  talent  and  the  ample  range 
of  his  literary  acquisitions.  Our  hero  was  now 
fairly  in  the  traces  of  authorship.  He  looked  to 
it  as  his  permanent  vocation;    and  the  indefati- 


32  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

gable  diligence  with  which  he  devoted  himself  to 
it  may  at  least  serve  to  show  that  he  did  not  shrink 
from  his  professional  engagements  from  any  lack 
of  industry  or  enterprise. 

The  publication  of  "  Arthur  Mervyn  "  was  suc- 
ceeded not  long  after  by  that  of  Edgar  Huntly; 
or.  The  Adventures  of  a  Sleepwalker,  a  romance 
presenting  a  greater  variety  of  wild  and  pictu- 
resque adventure,  with  more  copious  delineations 
of  natural  scenery,  than  is  to  be  found  in  his  other 
fictions ;  circumstances,  no  doubt,  possessing  more 
attractions  for  the  mass  of  readers  than  the  pecu- 
liarities of  his  other  novels.  Indeed,  the  author 
has  succeeded  perfectly  in  constantly  stimulating 
the  curiosity  by  a  succession  of  as  original  inci- 
dents, perils,  and  hairbreadth  escapes  as  ever 
flitted  across  a  poet's  fancy.  It  is  no  small 
triumph  of  the  art  to  be  able  to  maintain  the 
curiosity  of  the  reader  unflagging  through  a  suc- 
cession of  incidents  which,  far  from  being  sus- 
tained by  one  predominant  passion  and  forming 
parts  of  one  whole,  rely  each  for  its  interest  on 
its  own  independent  merits. 

The  story  is  laid  in  the  western  part  of  Penn- 
sylvania, where  the  author  has  diversified  his  de- 
scriptions of  a  simple  and  almost  primitive  state 
of  society  with  unconmionly  animated  sketches  of 
rural  scenery.  It  is  worth  observing  how  the 
sombre  complexion  of  Brown's  imagination, 
which  so  deeply  tinges  his  moral  portraiture,  sheds 
its  gloom  over  his  pictures  of  material  nature, 
raising  the  landscape  into  all  the  severe  and 
savage  sublimity  of  a  Salvator  Rosa.     The  som- 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  S3 

nambulism  of  this  novel,  which,  like  the  ventrilo- 
quism of  "  Wieland,"  is  the  moving  principle  of 
all  the  machinery,  has  this  advantage  over  the 
latter,  that  it  does  not  necessarily  impair  the  effect 
by  perpetually  suggesting  a  solution  of  mysteries, 
and  thus  dispelling  the  illusion  on  whose  existence 
the  effect  of  the  whole  story  mainly  depends. 
The  adventures,  indeed,  built  upon  it  are  not  the 
most  probable  in  the  world;  but,  waiving  this, — 
we  shall  be  well  rewarded  for  such  concession, — 
there  is  no  farther  difficulty. 

The  extract  already  cited  by  us  from  the  first 
of  our  author's  novels  has  furnished  the  reader 
with  an  illustration  of  his  power  in  displaying  the 
conflict  of  passion  under  high  moral  excitement. 
We  will  now  venture  another  quotation  from  the 
work  before  us,  in  order  to  exhibit  more  fully  his 
talent  for  the  description  of  external  objects. 

Edgar  Huntly,  the  hero  of  the  story,  is  repre- 
sented in  one  of  the  wild  mountain-fastnesses  of 
Norwalk,  a  district  in  the  western  part  of  Penn- 
sylvania. He  is  on  the  brink  of  a  ravine,  from 
which  the  only  avenue  lies  over  the  body  of  a  tree 
thrown  across  the  chasm,  through  whose  dark 
depths  beloAv  a  rushing  torrent  is  heard  to  pour 
its  waters. 

*'  While  occupied  with  these  reflections,  my  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  the  opposite  steeps.  The  tops  of 
the  trees,  waving  to  and  fro  in  the  wildest  com- 
motion, and  their  trunks  occasionally  bending  to 
the  blast,  which,  in  these  lofty  regions,  blew  with 
a  violence  unknown  in  the  tracts  below,  exhibited 
an  awful  spectacle.    At  length  my  attention  was 

Vol.  I.— 3 


34  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

attracted  by  the  trunk  which  lay  across  the  gulf, 
and  which  I  had  converted  into  a  bridge.  I  per- 
ceived that  it  had  already  swerved  somewhat  from 
its  original  position;  that  every  blast  broke  or 
loosened  some  of  the  fibres  by  which  its  roots  were 
connected  with  the  opposite  bank ;  and  that,  if  the 
storm  did  not  speedily  abate,  there  was  imminent 
danger  of  its  being  torn  from  the  rock  and  pre- 
cipitated into  the  chasm.  Thus  my  retreat  would 
be  cut  oiF,  and  the  evils  from  which  I  was  en- 
deavoring to  rescue  another  would  be  experienced 
by  myself. 

"  I  believed  my  destiny  to  hang  upon  the  expe- 
dition with  which  I  should  recross  this  gulf.  The 
moments  that  were  spent  in  these  deliberations 
were  critical,  and  I  shuddered  to  observe  that  the 
trunk  was  held  in  its  place  by  one  or  two  fibres, 
which  were  abeady  stretched  almost  to  breaking. 

"  To  pass  along  the  trunk,  rendered  slippery 
by  the  wet  and  unsteadf ast  by  the  wind,  was  emi- 
nently dangerous.  To  maintain  my  hold  in  pass- 
ing, in  defiance  of  the  whirlwind,  required  the 
most  vigorous  exertions.  For  this  end,  it  was 
necessary  to  discommode  myself  of  my  cloak,  and 
of  the  volume  which  I  carried  in  the  pocket  of  my 
coat. 

"  Just  as  I  had  disposed  of  these  encumbrances, 
and  had  risen  from  my  seat,  my  attention  was 
again  called  to  the  opposite  steep  by  the  most  un- 
welcome object  that  at  this  time  could  possibly 
occur.  Something  was  perceived  moving  among 
the  bushes  and  rocks,  which,  for  a  time,  I  hoped 
was  nothing  more  than  a  raccoon  or  opossum, 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  35 

but  which  presently  appeared  to  be  a  panther. 
His  gray  coat,  extended  claws,  fiery  eyes,  and  a 
cry  which  he  at  that  moment  uttered,  and  which, 
by  its  resemblance  to  the  human  voice,  is  pecu- 
liarly terrific,  denoted  him  to  be  the  most  ferocious 
and  untamable  of  that  detested  race.  The  indus- 
try of  our  hunters  has  nearly  banished  animals  of 
prey  from  these  precincts.  The  fastnesses  of 
Norwalk,  however,  could  not  but  afford  refuge  to 
some  of  them.  Of  late  I  had  met  them  so  rarely 
that  my  fears  were  seldom  alive,  and  I  trod  with- 
out caution  the  ruggedest  and  most  solitary 
haunts.  Still,  however,  I  had  seldom  been  unfur- 
nished in  my  rambles  with  the  means  of  defence. 

"  The  unfrequency  with  which  I  had  lately  en- 
countered this  foe,  and  the  encumbrance  of  pro- 
vision, made  me  neglect,  on  this  occasion,  to  bring 
with  me  my  usual  arms.  The  beast  that  was  now 
before  me,  when  stimulated  by  hunger,  was  accus- 
tomed to  assail  whatever  could  provide  him  with 
a  banquet  of  blood.  He  would  set  upon  the  man 
and  the  deer  with  equal  and  irresistible  ferocity. 
His  sagacity  was  equal  to  his  strength,  and  he 
seemed  able  to  discover  when  his  antagonist  was 
armed  and  prepared  for  defence. 

"  My  past  experience  enabled  me  to  estimate 
the  full  extent  of  my  danger.  He  sat  on  the  brow 
of  the  steep,  eying  the  bridge,  and  apparently 
deliberating  whether  he  should  cross  it.  It  was 
probable  that  he  had  scented  my  footsteps  thus 
far,  and,  should  he  pass  over,  his  vigilance  could 
scarcely  fail  of  detecting  my  asylum. 

"  Should  he  retain  his  present  station,  my  dan- 


36  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

ger  was  scarcely  lessened.  To  pass  over  in  the 
face  of  a  famished  tiger  was  only  to  rush  upon  my 
fate.  The  falling  of  the  trunk,  which  had  lately 
been  so  anxiously  deprecated,  was  now  with  no 
less  solicitude  desired.  Every  new  gust  I  hoped 
would  tear  asunder  its  remaining  bands,  and,  by 
cutting  off  all  communication  between  the  oppo- 
site steeps,  place  me  in  security.  My  hopes,  how- 
ever, were  destined  to  be  frustrated.  The  fibres 
of  the  prostrate  tree  were  obstinately  tenacious  of 
their  hold,  and  presently  the  animal  scrambled 
down  the  rock  and  proceeded  to  cross  it. 

"  Of  all  kinds  of  death,  that  which  now  men- 
aced me  was  the  most  abhorred.  To  die  by  dis- 
ease, or  by  the  hand  of  a  fellow-creature,  was  pro- 
pitious and  lenient  in  comparison  Avith  being  rent 
to  pieces  by  the  fangs  of  this  savage.  To  perish 
in  this  obscure  retreat  by  means  so  impervious  to 
the  anxious  curiosity  of  my  friends,  to  lose  my 
portion  of  existence  by  so  untoward  and  ignoble 
a  destiny,  was  insupportable.  I  bitterly  deplored 
my  rashness  in  coming  hither  unprovided  for  an 
encounter  like  this. 

"  The  evil  of  my  present  circumstances  con- 
sisted chiefly  in  suspense.  My  death  was  unavoid- 
able, but  my  imagination  had  leisure  to  torment 
itself  by  anticipations.  One  foot  of  the  savage 
was  slowly  and  cautiously  moved  after  the  other. 
He  struck  his  claws  so  deeply  into  the  bark  that 
they  were  with  difficulty  withdrawn.  At  length 
he  leaped  upon  the  ground.  We  w^ere  now  sepa- 
rated by  an  interval  of  scarcely  eight  feet.  To 
leave  the  spot  where  I  crouched  was  impossible. 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  37 

Behind  and  beside  me  the  chiF  rose  perpendicu- 
larly, and  before  me  was  this  grim  and  terrible 
visage.  I  shrunk  still  closer  to  the  ground,  and 
closed  my  eyes. 

"  From  this  pause  of  horror  I  was  aroused  by 
the  noise  occasioned  by  a  second  spring  of  the 
animal.  He  leaped  into  the  pit  in  which  I  had 
so  deeply  regretted  that  I  had  not  taken  refuge, 
and  disappeared.  My  rescue  was  so  sudden,  and 
so  much  beyond  my  belief  or  my  hope,  that  I 
doubted  for  a  moment  whether  my  senses  did  not 
deceive  me.  This  opportunity  of  escape  was  not 
to  be  neglected.  I  left  my  place  and  scrambled 
over  the  trunk  with  a  precipitation  which  had  like 
to  have  proved  fatal.  The  tree  groaned  and  shook 
under  me,  the  wind  blew  with  unexampled  vio- 
lence, and  I  had  scarcely  reached  the  opposite 
steep  when  the  roots  were  severed  from  the  rock 
and  the  whole  fell  thundering  to  the  bottom  of 
the  chasm. 

"  My  trepidations  were  not  speedily  quieted.  I 
looked  back  with  wonder  on  my  hairbreadth  es- 
cape, and  on  that  singular  concurrence  of  events 
which  had  placed  me  in  so  short  a  period  in  abso- 
lute security.  Had  the  trunk  fallen  a  moment 
earlier,  I  should  have  been  imprisoned  on  the  hill 
or  thrown  headlong.  Had  its  fall  been  delayed 
another  moment,  I  should  have  been  pursued ;  for 
the  beast  now  issued  from  his  den,  and  testified 
his  surprise  and  disappointment  by  tokens  the 
sight  of  which  made  my  blood  run  cold. 

"  He  saw  me,  and  hastened  to  the  verge  of  the 
chasm.     He  squatted  on  his  hind  legs,  and  as- 


88  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

sumed  the  attitude  of  one  preparing  to  leap.  My 
consternation  was  excited  afresh  by  these  appear- 
ances. It  seemed  at  first  as  if  the  rift  was  too  wide 
for  any  power  of  muscles  to  carry  him  in  safety 
over;  but  I  knew  the  unparalleled  agility  of  this 
animal,  and  that  his  experience  had  made  him  a 
better  judge  of  the  practicability  of  this  exploit 
than  I  was. 

"  Still,  there  was  hope  that  he  would  relinquish 
this  design  as  desperate.  This  hope  was  quickly 
at  an  end.  He  sprung,  and  his  fore  legs  touched 
the  verge  of  the  rock  on  which  I  stood.  In  spite 
of  vehement  exertions,  however,  the  surface  was 
too  smooth  and  too  hard  to  allow  him  to  make  good 
his  hold.  He  fell,  and  a  piercing  cry  uttered  below 
showed  that  nothing  had  obstructed  his  descent  to 
the  bottom." 

The  subsequent  narrative  leads  the  hero  through 
a  variety  of  romantic  adventures,  especially  with 
the  savages,  with  whom  he  has  several  desperate 
rencounters  and  critical  escapes.  The  track  of  ad- 
venture, indeed,  strikes  into  the  same  wild  soHtudes 
of  the  forest  that  have  since  been  so  frequently 
travelled  over  by  our  ingenious  countryman 
Cooper.  The  light  in  which  the  character  of  the 
North  American  Indian  has  been  exhibited  by  the 
two  writers  has  little  resemblance.  Brown's 
sketches,  it  is  true,  are  few  and  faint.  As  far  as 
they  go,  however,  they  are  confined  to  such  views 
as  are  most  conformable  to  the  popular  concep- 
tions, bringing  into  full  relief  the  rude  and  un- 
couth lineaments  of  the  Indian  character,  its  cun- 
ning, cruelty,  and  unmitigated  ferocity,  with  no 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  39 

intimations  of  a  more  generous  nature.  Cooper, 
on  the  other  hand,  discards  all  the  coarser  elements 
of  savage  life,  reserving  those  only  of  a  pictu- 
resque and  romantic  cast,  and  elevating  the  souls 
of  his  warriors  by  such  sentiments  of  courtesy, 
high-toned  gallantry,  and  passionate  tenderness  as 
belong  to  the  riper  period  of  civilization.  Thus 
ideahzed,  the  portrait,  if  not  strictly  that  of  the 
fierce  and  untamed  son  of  the  forest,  is  at  least 
sufficiently  true  for  poetical  purposes.  Cooper  is 
indeed  a  poet.  His  descriptions  of  inanimate 
nature,  no  less  than  of  savage  man,  are  instinct 
with  the  breath  of  poetry.  Witness  his  infinitely 
various  pictures  of  the  ocean,  or,  still  more,  of  the 
beautiful  spirit  that  rides  upon  its  bosom,  the  gal- 
lant ship,  which  under  his  touches  becomes  an  ani- 
mated thing,  inspired  by  a  living  soul ;  reminding 
us  of  the  beautiful  superstition  of  the  simple- 
hearted  natives,  who  fancied  the  bark  of  Columbus 
some  celestial  visitant,  descending  on  his  broad 
pinions  from  the  skies. 

Brown  is  far  less  of  a  colorist.  He  deals  less  in 
external  nature,  but  searches  the  depths  of  the 
soul.  He  may  be  rather  called  a  philosophical 
than  a  poetical  writer;  for,  though  he  has  that  in- 
tensity of  feeling  which  constitutes  one  of  the  dis- 
tinguishing attributes  of  the  latter,  yet  in  his  most 
tumultuous  bursts  of  passion  we  frequently  find 
him  pausing  to  analyze  and  coolly  speculate  on 
the  elements  which  have  raised  it.  This  intrusion, 
indeed,  of  reason,  la  raison  froide^  into  scenes  of 
the  greatest  interest  and  emotion,  has  sometimes 
the  unhappy  effect  of  chilling  them  altogether. 


40  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

In  1800  Brown  published  the  second  part  of  his 
Arthur  Mervyn,  whose  occasional  displays  of 
energy  and  pathos  by  no  means  compensate  the 
violent  dislocations  and  general  improbabilities  of 
the  narrative.  Our  author  was  led  into  these  de- 
fects by  the  unpardonable  precipitancy  of  his  com- 
position. Three  of  his  romances  were  thrown  off 
in  the  course  of  one  year.  These  were  written 
with  the  printer's  devil  literally  at  his  elbow,  one 
being  begun  before  another  was  completed,  and 
all  of  them  before  a  regular,  well-digested  plan 
was  devised  for  their  execution. 

The  consequences  of  this  curious  style  of  doing 
business  are  such  as  might  have  been  predicted. 
The  incidents  are  strung  together  with  about  as 
little  connection  as  the  rhymes  in  "  The  House 
that  Jack  built;"  and  the  whole  reminds  us  of 
some  bizarre,  antiquated  edifice,  exhibiting  a  dozen 
styles  of  architecture,  according  to  the  caprice  or 
convenience  of  its  successive  owners. 

The  reader  is  ever  at  a  loss  for  a  clue  to  guide 
him  through  the  labyrinth  of  strange,  incongruous 
incident.  It  would  seem  as  if  the  great  object  of 
the  author  was  to  keep  alive  the  state  of  suspense, 
on  the  player's  principle,  in  "  The  Rehearsal,"  that 
"  on  the  stage  it  is  best  to  keep  the  audience  in  sus- 
pense; for  to  guess  presently  at  the  plot  or  the 
sense  tires  them  at  the  end  of  the  first  act.  Now, 
here  every  line  surprises  you,  and  brings  in  new 
matter!  "  Perhaps,  however,  all  this  proceeds  less 
from  calculation  than  from  the  embarrassment 
which  the  novelist  feels  in  attempting  a  solution  of 
his  own  riddles,  and  which  leads  him  to  put  off  the 


PORTEAIT  OF  VOLTAIKE. 


.aaiATJOv  '10  TiAaTaoi 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  41 

reader,  by  multiplying  incident  after  incident, 
until  at  length,  entangled  in  the  complicated  snarl 
of  his  own  intrigue,  he  is  finally  obhged,  when  the 
fatal  hour  arrives,  to  cut  the  knot  which  he  cannot 
unravel.  There  is  no  other  way  by  which  we  can 
account  for  the  forced  and  violent  denouements 
which  bring  up  so  many  of  Brown's  fictions.  Vol- 
taire has  remarked,  somewhere  in  his  Commen- 
taries on  Corneille,  th^t  "  an  author  may  WTite 
with  the  rapidity  of  genius,  but  should  correct  with 
scrupulous  dehberation."  Our  author  seems  to 
have  thought  it  sufficient  to  comply  with  the  first 
half  of  the  maxim. 

In  1801  Brown  published  his  novel  of  Clara 
Howard,  and  in  1804  closed  the  series  with  Jane 
Talbot,  first  printed  in  England.  They  are  com- 
posed in  a  more  subdued  tone,  discarding  those 
startling  preternatural  incidents  of  which  he  had 
made  such  free  use  in  his  former  fictions.  In  the 
preface  to  his  first  romance,  "  Wieland,"  he  re- 
marks, in  allusion  to  the  mj^stery  on  which  the 
story  is  made  to  depend,  that  "it  is  a  sufficient 
vindication  of  the  writer  if  history  furnishes  one 
parallel  fact."  But  the  French  critic,  who  tells  us 
le  vrai  pent  quelquefois  n'etre  pas  vraisemhlahle, 
has,  with  more  judgment,  condemned  this  vicious 
recurrence  to  extravagant  and  improbable  inci- 
dent. Truth  cannot  always  be  pleaded  in  vindica- 
tion of  the  author  of  a  fiction  any  more  than  of  a 
libel.  Brown  seems  to  have  subsequently  come 
into  the  same  opinion;  for,  in  a  letter  addressed 
to  his  brother  James,  after  the  publication  of 
"  Edgar  Huntly,"  he  observes,  "  Your  remarks 


42  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

upon  the  gloominess  and  out-of -nature  incidents 
of  '  Huntly/  if  they  be  not  just  in  their  full  ex- 
tent, are  doubtless  such  as  most  readers  will  make, 
which  alone  is  sufficient  reason  for  dropping  the 
doleful  tone  and  assuming  a  cheerful  one,  or,  at 
least,  substituting  moral  causes  and  daily  incidents 
in  place  of  the  prodigious  or  the  singular.  I  shall 
not  fall  hereafter  into  that  strain."  The  two  last 
novels  of  our  author,  however,  although  purified 
from  the  more  glaring  defects  of  the  preceding, 
were  so  inferior  in  their  general  power  and  origi- 
nality of  conception  that  they  never  rose  to  the 
same  level  in  public  favor. 

In  the  year  1801  Brown  returned  to  his  native 
city,  Philadelphia,  where  he  established  his  resi- 
dence in  the  family  of  his  brother.  Here  he  con- 
tinued, steadily  pursuing  his  literary  avocations, 
and  in  1803  undertook  the  conduct  of  a  periodical, 
entitled  The  Literary  Magazine  and  American 
Register.  A  great  change  had  taken  place  in  his 
opinions  on  more  than  one  important  topic  con- 
nected with  human  life  and  happiness,  and,  indeed, 
in  his  general  tone  of  thinking,  since  abandoning 
his  professional  career.  Brighter  prospects,  no 
doubt,  suggested  to  him  more  cheerful  considera- 
tions. Instead  of  a  mere  dreamer  in  the  world  of 
fancy,  he  had  now  become  a  practical  man :  larger 
experience  and  deeper  meditation  had  shown  him 
the  emptiness  of  his  Utopian  theories ;  and,  though 
his  sensibilities  were  as  ardent  and  as  easily  enlisted 
as  ever  in  the  cause  of  humanity,  his  schemes  of 
amelioration  were  built  upon,  not  against,  the  ex- 
isting institutions  of  society.    The  enunciation  of 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  43 

the  principles  on  which  the  periodical  above 
alluded  to  was  to  be  conducted  is  so  honorable 
every  way  to  his  heart  and  his  understanding  that 
we  cannot  refrain  from  making  a  brief  extract 
from  it: 

"In  an  age  like  this,  when  the  foundations  of 
religion  and  morality  have  been  so  boldly  attacked, 
it  seems  necessary,  in  announcing  a  work  of  this 
nature,  to  be  particularly  explicit  as  to  the  path 
which  the  editor  means  to  pursue.  He  therefore 
avows  himself  to  be,  without  equivocation  or  re- 
serve, the  ardent  friend  and  the  willing  champion 
of  the  Christian  religion.  Christian  piety  he  re- 
veres as  the  highest  excellence  of  human  beings; 
and  the  amplest  reward  he  can  seek  for  his  labor 
is  the  consciousness  of  having  in  some  degree, 
however  inconsiderable,  contributed  to  recommend 
the  practice  of  religious  duties.  As  in  the  conduct 
of  this  work  a  supreme  regard  will  be  paid  to  the 
interests  of  religion  and  morality,  he  will  scrupu- 
lously guard  against  all  that  dishonors  and  im- 
pairs that  principle.  Everything  that  savors  of 
indelicacy  or  licentiousness  will  be  rigorously  pro- 
scribed. His  poetical  pieces  may  be  dull,  but  they 
shall  at  least  be  free  from  voluptuousness  or  sen- 
suality ;  and  his  prose,  whether  seconded  or  not  by 
genius  and  knowledge,  shall  scrupulously  aim  at 
the  promotion  of  public  and  private  virtue." 

During  his  abode  in  New  York  our  author  had 
formed  an  attachment  to  an  amiable  and  accom- 
plished young  lady,  Miss  Elizabeth  Linn,  daugh- 
ter of  the  excellent  and  highly-gifted  Presbyterian 
divine,  Dr.  William  Linn,  of  that  city.     Their 


44  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

mutual  attachment,  in  which  the  impulses  of  the 
heart  were  sanctioned  by  the  understanding,  was 
followed  by  their  marriage  in  November,  1804, 
after  which  he  never  again  removed  his  residence 
from  Philadelphia. 

With  the  additional  responsibilities  of  his  new 
station,  he  pursued  his  literary  labors  with  in- 
creased diligence.  He  projected  the  plan  of  an 
Annual  Register^  the  first  work  of  the  kind  in  the 
country,  and  in  1806  edited  the  first  volume  of 
the  publication,  which  was  undertaken  at  the  risk 
of  an  eminent  bookseller  of  Philadelphia,  ISlr. 
Conrad,  who  had  engaged  his  editorial  labors  in 
the  conduct  of  the  former  Magazine,  begun  in 
1803.  When  it  is  considered  that  both  these  peri- 
odicals were  placed  under  the  superintendence  of 
one  individual,  and  that  he  bestowed  such  inde- 
fatigable attention  on  them  that  they  were  not 
only  prepared,  but  a  large  portion  actually  exe- 
cuted, by  his  own  hands,  we  shall  form  no  mean 
opinion  of  the  extent  and  variety  of  his  stores  of 
information  and  his  facility  in  applying  them. 
Both  works  are  replete  with  evidences  of  the  taste 
and  erudition  of  their  editor,  embracing  a  wide 
range  of  miscellaneous  articles,  essays,  literary 
criticism,  and  scientific  researches.  The  historical 
portion  of  "  The  Register  "  in  particular,  compre- 
hending, in  addition  to  the  political  annals  of  the 
principal  states  of  Europe  and  of  our  own  coun- 
try, an  elaborate  inquiry  into  the  origin  and  or- 
ganization of  our  domestic  institutions,  displays  a 
discrimination  in  the  selection  of  incidents,  and  a 
good  faith  and  candor  in  the  mode  of  discussing 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  45 

them,  that  entitle  it  to  great  authority  as  a  record 
of  contemporary  transactions.  Eight  volumes 
were  published  of  the  first-mentioned  periodical, 
and  the  latter  was  continued  under  his  direction 
till  the  end  of  the  fifth  volume,  1809. 

In  addition  to  these  regular  and,  as  they  may 
be  called,  professional  labors,  he  indulged  his  pro- 
lific pen  in  various  speculations,  both  of  a  literary 
and  political  character,  many  of  which  appeared 
in  the  pages  of  the  "  Portfolio."  Among  other 
occasional  productions,  we  may  notice  a  beautiful 
biographical  sketch  of  his  wife's  brother,  Dr.  J. 
B.  Linn,  pastor  of  the  Presbyterian  church  in 
Philadelphia,  whose  lamented  death  occurred  in 
the  year  succeeding  Bro^vn's  marriage.  We  must 
not  leave  out  of  the  account  three  elaborate  and 
extended  pamphlets,  published  between  1803  and 
1809,  on  political  topics  of  deep  interest  to  the 
community  at  that  time.  The  fii'st  of  these,  on 
the  cession  of  Louisiana  to  the  French,  soon  went 
into  a  second  edition.  They  all  excited  general 
attention  at  the  time  of  their  appearance  by  the 
novelty  of  their  arguments,  the  variety  and 
copiousness  of  their  information,  the  liberality  of 
their  views,  the  independence,  so  rare  at  that  day, 
of  foreign  prejudices,  the  exemption,  still  rarer, 
from  the  bitterness  of  party  spirit,  and,  lastly,  the 
tone  of  loyal  and  heartfelt  patriotism — a  patriot- 
ism without  cant — with  which  the  author  dwells 
on  the  expanding  glory  and  prosperity  of  his 
countrj^  in  a  strain  of  prophecy  that  it  is  our  boast 
has  now  become  history. 

Thus  occupied.  Brown's  situation  seemed  now 


46  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

to  afford  him  all  the  means  for  happiness  attain- 
able in  this  life.  His  own  labors  secured  to  him 
an  honorable  independence  and  a  high  reputation, 
which,  to  a  mind  devoted  to  professional  or  other 
intellectual  pursuits,  is  usually  of  far  higher  esti- 
mation than  gain.  Round  his  own  fireside  he 
found  ample  scope  for  the  exercise  of  his  affec- 
tionate sensibilities,  while  the  tranquil  pleasures  of 
domestic  life  proved  the  best  possible  relaxation 
for  a  mind  wearied  by  severe  intellectual  effort. 
His  grateful  heart  was  deeply  sensible  to  the 
extent  of  his  blessings;  and  in  more  than  one 
letter  he  indulges  in  a  vein  of  reflection  which 
shows  that  his  only  solicitude  was  from  the  fear 
of  their  instability.  His  own  health  furnished 
too  well-grounded  cause  for  such  apprehen- 
sions. 

We  have  already  noticed  that  he  set  out  in  life 
with  a  feeble  constitution.  His  sedentary  habits 
and  intense  application  had  not,  as  it  may  well  be 
believed,  contributed  to  repair  the  defects  of 
Nature.  He  had  for  some  time  shown  a  dispo- 
sition to  pulmonary  complaints,  and  had  raised 
blood  more  than  once,  which  he  in  vain  endeavored 
to  persuade  himself  did  not  proceed  from  the 
lungs.  As  the  real  character  of  the  disease  dis- 
closed itself  in  a  manner  not  to  be  mistaken,  his 
anxious  friends  would  have  persuaded  him  to 
cross  the  water  in  the  hope  of  re-establishing  his 
health  by  a  seasonable  change  of  climate.  But 
Brown  could  not  endure  the  thoughts  of  so  long 
a  separation  from  his  beloved  family,  and  he 
trusted  to  the  effect  of  a  temporary  abstinence 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  47 

from  business,  and  of  one  of  those  excursions  into 
the  country  by  which  he  had  so  often  recruited  his 
health  and  spirits. 

In  the  summer  of  1809  he  made  a  tour  into  New 
Jersey  and  New  York.  A  letter  addressed  to  one 
of  his  family  from  the  banks  of  the  Hudson,  dur- 
ing this  journey,  exhibits  in  melancholy  colors  how 
large  a  portion  of  his  life  had  been  clouded  by 
disease,  which  now,  indeed,  was  too  oppressive  to 
admit  of  any  other  alleviation  than  what  he  could 
find  in  the  bosom  of  his  own  family. 

"My  dearest  Mary, — Instead  of  wandering 
about  and  viewing  more  nearly  a  place  that 
affords  very  pleasing  landscapes,  here  am  I, 
hovering  over  the  images  of  wife,  children,  and 
sisters.  I  want  to  write  to  you  and  home;  and, 
though  unable  to  procure  paper  enough  to  form 
a  letter,  I  cannot  help  saying  something  even  on 
this  scrap. 

"  I  am  mortified  to  think  how  incurious  and 
inactive  a  mind  has  fallen  to  my  lot.  I  left  home 
with  reluctance.  If  I  had  not  brought  a  beloved 
part  of  my  home  along  with  me,  I  should  prob- 
ably have  not  left  it  at  all.  At  a  distance  from 
home,  my  enjoyments,  my  affections,  are  beside 
you.  If  swayed  by  mere  inclination,  I  should 
'not  be  out  of  your  company  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
between  my  parting  and  returning  hour;  but  I 
have  some  mercy  on  you  and  Susan,  and  a  due 
conviction  of  my  want  of  power  to  beguile  your 
vacant  hour  with  amusement  or  improve  it  by 
instruction.    Even  if  I  were  ever  so  well,  and  if 


48  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

my  spirits  did  not  continually  hover  on  the  brink 
of  dejection,  my  talk  could  only  make  you  yawn; 
as  things  are,  my  company  can  only  tend  to  create 
a  gap  indeed. 

"  When  have  I  known  that  lightness  and  vivac- 
ity of  mind  which  the  divine  flow  of  health,  even 
in  calamity,  produces  in  some  men,  and  would 
produce  in  me,  no  doubt, — at  least,  when  not 
soured  by  misfortune?  Never;  scarcely  ever ;  not 
longer  than  half  an  hour  at  a  time  since  I  have 
called  myself  man,  and  not  a  moment  since  I  left 

you." 

Finding  these  brief  excursions  productive  of  no 
salutary  change  in  his  health,  he  at  length  com- 
plied with  the  entreaties  of  his  friends,  and  deter- 
mined to  try  the  effect  of  a  voyage  to  Europe  in 
the  following  spring.  That  spring  he  was 
doomed  never  to  behold.  About  the  middle  of 
November  he  was  taken  with  a  violent  pain  in  his 
left  side,  for  which  he  was  bled.  From  that  time 
forward  he  was  confined  to  his  chamber.  His 
malady  was  not  attended  with  the  exemption  from 
actual  pain  with  which  Nature  seems  sometimes 
willing  to  compensate  the  sufferer  for  the  length 
of  its  duration.  His  sufferings  were  incessant 
and  acute;  and  thej^  were  supported  not  only 
without  a  murmur,  but  with  an  appearance  of 
cheerfulness  to  which  the  hearts  of  his  friends 
could  but  ill  respond.  He  met  the  approach  of 
death  in  the  true  spirit  of  Christian  philosophy. 
No  other  dread  but  that  of  separation  from  those 
dear  to  him  on  earth  had  power  to  disturb  his  tran- 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  49 

quillity  for  a  moment.  But  the  temper  of  his 
mind  in  his  last  hours  is  best  disclosed  in  a  com- 
munication from  that  faithful  partner  who  con- 
tributed more  than  any  other  to  support  him 
through  them.  "  He  always  felt  for  others  more 
than  for  himself;  and  the  evidences  of  sorrow  in 
those  around  him,  which  could  not  at  all  times  be 
suppressed,  appeared  to  affect  him  more  than  his 
own  sufferings.  Whenever  he  spoke  of  the  prob- 
ability of  a  fatal  termination  to  his  disease,  it  was 
in  an  indirect  and  covert  manner,  as,  '  you  must 
do  so  and  so  when  I  am  absent,'  or  '  when  I  am 
asleep.'  He  surrendered  not  up  one  faculty  of 
his  soul  but  with  his  last  breath.  He  saw  death  in 
every  step  of  his  approach,  and  viewed  him  as  a 
messenger  that  brought  with  him  no  terrors.  He 
frequently  expressed  his  resignation;  but  his  res- 
ignation was  not  produced  by  apathy  or  pain ;  for, 
while  he  bowed  with  submission  to  the  Divine  will, 
he  felt  with  the  keenest  sensibility  his  separation 
from  those  who  made  this  world  but  too  dear  to 
him.  Towards  the  last  he  spoke  of  death  without 
disguise,  and  appeared  to  wish  to  prepare  his 
friends  for  the  event  which  he  felt  to  be  approach- 
ing. A  few  days  previous  to  his  change,  as  sitting 
up  in  the  bed,  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  sky,  and 
desired  not  to  be  spoken  to  until  he  first  spoke. 
In  this  position,  and  with  a  serene  countenance, 
he  continued  for  some  minutes,  and  then  said  to 
his  wife,  '  When  I  desired  you  not  to  speak  to 
me,  I  had  the  most  transporting  and  sublime  feel- 
ings I  have  ever  experienced;  I  wanted  to  enjoy 
them,  and  know  how  long  they  would  last; '  con- 

VoL.  I.— 4 


50  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

eluding  with  requesting  her  to  remember  the  cir- 
cumstance." 

A  visible  change  took  place  in  him  on  the  morn- 
ing of  the  19th  of  February,  1810,  and  he  caused 
his  family  to  be  assembled  around  his  bed,  when 
he  took  leave  of  each  one  of  them  in  the  most  ten- 
der and  impressive  manner.  He  lingered,  how- 
ever, a  few  days  longer,  remaining  in  the  full 
possession  of  his  faculties  to  the  22d  of  the  month, 
when  he  expired  without  a  struggle.  He  had 
reached  the  thirty-ninth  year  of  his  age  the  month 
preceding  his  death.  The  family  which  he  left 
consisted  of  a  wife  and  four  children. 

There  was  nothing  striking  in  Brown's  per- 
sonal appearance.  His  manners,  however,  were 
distinguished  by  a  gentleness  and  unaffected  sim- 
plicity which  rendered  them  extremely  agreeable. 
He  possessed  colloquial  powers  which  do  not 
always  fall  to  the  lot  of  the  practised  and  ready 
writer.  His  rich  and  various  acquisitions  supplied 
an  unfailing  fund  for  the  edification  of  his  hear- 
ers. They  did  not  lead  him,  however,  to  affect  an 
air  of  superiority,  or  to  assume  too  prominent  a 
part  in  the  dialogue,  especially  in  large  or  mixed 
company,  where  he  was  rather  disposed  to  be 
silent,  reserving  the  display  of  his  powers  for  the 
unrestrained  intercourse  of  friendship.  He  was 
a  stranger  not  only  to  base  and  malignant  pas- 
sions, but  to  the  paltry  jealousies  which  some- 
times sour  the  intercourse  of  men  of  letters.  On 
the  contrary,  he  was  ever  prompt  to  do  ample 
justice  to  the  merits  of  others.  His  heart  was 
warm  with  the  feeling  of  universal  benevolence. 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  51 

Too  sanguine  and  romantic  views  had  exposed 
him  to  some  miscalculations  and  consequent  dis- 
appointments in  youth,  from  which,  however,  he 
was  subsequently  retrieved  by  the  strength  of  his 
understanding,  which,  combining  with  what  may 
be  called  his  natural  elevation  of  soul,  enabled  him 
to  settle  the  soundest  principles  for  the  regulation 
of  his  opinions  and  conduct  in  after-life.  His 
reading  was  careless  and  desultory,  but  his  appe- 
tite was  voracious ;  and  the  great  amount  of  mis- 
cellaneous information  which  he  thus  amassed  was 
all  demanded  to  supply  the  outpourings  of  his 
mind  in  a  thousand  channels  of  entertainment  and 
instruction.  His  unwearied  application  is  attested 
by  the  large  amount  of  his  works,  large  even  for 
the  present  day,  when  mind  seems  to  have  caught 
the  accelerated  movement  so  generally  given  to 
the  operations  of  machinery.  The  whole  number 
of  Brown's  printed  works,  comprehending  his  edi- 
torial as  well  as  original  productions,  to  the 
former  of  which  his  own  pen  contributed  a  very 
disproportionate  share,  is  not  less  than  four-and- 
twenty  printed  volumes,  not  to  mention  various 
pamphlets,  anonymous  contributions  to  divers 
periodicals,  as  well  as  more  than  one  compilation 
of  laborious  research  which  he  left  unfinished  at 
his  death. 

Of  this  vast  amount  of  matter,  produced  within 
the  brief  compass  of  little  more  than  ten  years, 
that  portion  on  which  his  fame  as  an  author  must 
permanently  rest  is  his  novels.  We  have  already 
entered  too  minutely  into  the  merits  of  these  pro- 
ductions to  require  anything  farther  than  a  few 


52  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

general  observations.  They  may  probably  claim 
to  be  regarded  as  having  first  opened  the  way  to 
the  successful  cultivation  of  romantic  fiction  in 
this  country.  Great  doubts  were  long  entertained 
of  our  capabilities  for  immediate  success  in  this 
department.  We  had  none  of  the  buoyant,  stir- 
ring associations  of  a  romantic  age;  none  of  the 
chivalrous  pageantry,  the  feudal  and  border  story, 
or  Robin  Hood  adventure;  none  of  the  dim, 
shadowy  superstitions,  and  the  traditional  legends, 
which  had  gathered  like  moss  round  every  stone, 
hill,  and  valley  of  the  olden  countries.  Every- 
thing here  wore  a  spick-and-span  new  aspect,  and 
lay  in  the  broad,  garish  sunshine  of  every-day  life. 
We  had  none  of  the  picturesque  varieties  of  situa- 
tion or  costume;  everything  lay  on  the  same  dull, 
prosaic  level:  in  short,  we  had  none  of  the  most 
obvious  elements  of  poetry :  at  least  so  it  appeared 
to  the  vulgar  eye.  It  required  the  eye  of  genius 
to  detect  the  rich  stores  of  romantic  and  poetic 
interest  that  lay  beneath  the  crust  of  society. 
Brown  was  aware  of  the  capabilities  of  our  coun- 
try, and  the  poverty  of  the  results  he  was  less  in- 
clined to  impute  to  the  soil  than  to  the  cultivation 
of  it:  at  least  this  would  appear  from  some  re- 
marks dropped  in  his  correspondence  in  1794,  sev- 
eral years  before  he  broke  ground  in  this  field 
himself.  "  It  used  to  be  a  favorite  maxim  with 
me,  that  the  genius  of  a  poet  should  be  sacred  to 
the  glory  of  his  country.  How  far  this  rule  can 
be  reduced  to  practice  by  an  American  bard,  how 
far  he  can  prudently  observe  it,  and  what  success 
has  crowned  the  efforts  of  those  who,  in  their  com- 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  53 

positions,  have  shown  that  they  have  not  been  un- 
mindful of  it,  is  perhaps  not  worth  the  inquiry. 

"  Does  it  not  appear  to  you  that  to  give  poetry 
a  popular  currency  and  universal  reputation  a 
particular  cast  of  manners  and  state  of  civilization 
is  necessary?  I  have  sometimes  thought  so;  but 
perhaps  it  is  an  error,  and  the  want  of  popular 
poems  argues  only  the  demerit  of  those  who  have 
already  written,  or  some  defect  in  their  works, 
which  unfits  them  for  every  taste  or  understand- 
ing." 

The  success  of  our  author's  experiment,  which 
was  entirely  devoted  to  American  subjects,  fully 
established  the  soundness  of  his  opinions,  which 
have  been  abundantly  confirmed  by  the  prolific 
pens  of  Irving,  Cooper,  Sedgwick,  and  other 
accomplished  writers,  who  in  their  diversified 
sketches  of  national  character  and  scenery  have 
shown  the  full  capacity  of  our  country  for  all  the 
purposes  of  fiction.  Brown  does  not  direct  him- 
self, like  them,  to  the  illustration  of  social  life  and 
character.  He  is  little  occupied  with  the  exterior 
forms  of  society.  He  works  in  the  depths  of  the 
heart,  dwelling  less  on  human  action  than  the 
sources  of  it.  He  has  been  said  to  have  formed 
himself  on  Godwin.  Indeed,  he  openly  avowed 
his  admiration  of  that  eminent  writer,  and  has  cer- 
tainly in  some  respects  adopted  his  mode  of  opera- 
tion, studying  character  with  a  philosophic  rather 
than  a  poetic  eye.  But  there  is  no  servile  imitation 
in  all  this.  He  has  borrowed  the  same  torch,  in- 
deed, to  read  the  page  of  human  nature,  but  the 
lesson  he  derives  from  it  is  totally  different.    His 


54  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

great  object  seems  to  be  to  exhibit  the  soul  in 
scenes  of  extraordinary  interest.  For  this  pur- 
pose, striking  and  perilous  situations  are  devised, 
or  circumstances  of  strong  moral  excitement,  a 
troubled  conscience,  partial  gleams  of  insanity,  or 
bodings  of  imaginary  evil,  which  haunt  the  soul 
and  force  it  into  all  the  agonies  of  terror.  In  the 
midst  of  the  fearful  strife,  we  are  coolly  invited 
to  investigate  its  causes  and  all  the  various  phe- 
nomena which  attend  it ;  every  contingency,  prob- 
ability, nay,  possibility,  however  remote,  is  dis- 
cussed and  nicely  balanced.  The  heat  of  the 
reader  is  seen  to  evaporate  in  this  cold-blooded  dis- 
section, in  which  our  author  seems  to  rival  Butler's 
hero,  who, 

"  Profoundly  skilled  in  analytic, 
Could  distinguish  and  divide 
A  hair  'twixt  south  and  southwest  side." 

We  are  constantly  struck  with  the  strange  contrast 
of  over-passion  and  over-reasoning.  But  perhaps, 
after  all,  these  defects  could  not  be  pruned  away 
from  Brown's  composition  without  detriment  to 
his  peculiar  excellences.  Si  non  errdsset,  fecerat 
ille  minus.  If  so,  we  may  willingly  pardon  the 
one  for  the  sake  of  the  other. 

We  cannot  close  without  adverting  to  our 
author's  style.  He  bestowed  great  pains  on  the 
formation  of  it,  but,  in  our  opinion,  without  great 
success,  at  least  in  his  novels.  It  has  an  elaborate, 
factitious  air,  contrasting  singularly  with  the  gen- 
eral simplicity  of  his  taste  and  the  careless  rapidity 
of  his  composition.     We  are  aware,  indeed,  that 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  55 

works  of  imagination  may  bear  a  higher  flush  of 
color,  a  poetical  varnish,  in  short,  that  must  be 
refused  to  graver  and  more  studied  narrative.  No 
writer  has  been  so  felicitous  in  reaching  the  exact 
point  of  good  taste  in  this  particular  as  Scott,  who 
on  a  groundwork  of  prose  may  be  said  to  have 
enabled  his  readers  to  breathe  an  atmosphere  of 
poetry.  More  than  one  author,  on  the  other  hand, 
as  Florian,  in  French,  for  example,  and  Lady 
Morgan,  in  English,  in  their  attempts  to  reach 
this  middle  region,  are  eternally  fluttering  on  the 
wing  of  sentiment,  equally  removed  from  good 
prose  and  good  poetry. 

Brown,  perhaps  willing  to  avoid  this  extreme, 
has  fallen  into  the  opposite  one,  forcing  his  style 
into  unnatural  vigor  and  condensation.  Unusual 
and  pedantic  epithets,  and  elliptical  forms  of  ex- 
pression, in  perpetual  violation  of  idiom,  are  re- 
sorted to  at  the  expense  of  simplicity  and  nature. 
He  seems  averse  to  telling  simple  things  in  a 
simple  way.  Thus,  for  example,  we  have  such 
expressions  as  these :  "I  was  fraught  with  the 
persuasion  that  my  life  was  endangered."  "  The 
outer  door  was  ajar.  I  shut  it  with  trembling 
eagerness,  and  drew  every  bolt  that  appended  to 
it."  "  His  brain  seemed  to  swell  beyond  its  con- 
tinent."'' "  I  waited  till  their  slow  and  hoarser  in- 
spirations showed  them  to  be  both  asleep.  Just 
then,  on  changing  my  position,  my  head  struck 
against  some  things  which  depended  from  the  ceil- 
ing of  the  closet."  "  It  was  still  dark,  but  my 
sleep  was  at  an  end,  and,  by  a  common  apparatus 
(tinder-box?)  that  lay  beside  my  bed,  I  could  in- 


56  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

stantly  produce  a  light."  "  On  recovering  from 
deliquium,  you  found  it  where  it  had  been 
dropped."  It  is  unnecessary  to  multiply  exam- 
ples which  we  should  not  have  adverted  to  at  all 
had  not  our  opinions  in  this  matter  been  at  variance 
with  those  of  more  than  one  respectable  critic. 
This  sort  of  language  is  no  doubt  in  very  bad 
taste.  It  cannot  be  denied,  however,  that  although 
these  defects  are  sufficiently  general  to  give  a 
coloring  to  the  whole  of  his  composition,  yet  his 
works  afford  many  passages  of  undeniable  elo- 
quence and  rhetorical  beauty.  It  must  be  remem- 
bered, too,  that  his  novels  were  his  first  produc- 
tions, thrown  off  with  careless  profusion,  and 
exhibiting  many  of  the  defects  of  an  immature 
mind,  which  longer  experience  and  practice  might 
have  corrected.  Indeed,  his  later  writings  are 
recommended  by  a  more  correct  and  natural 
phraseology,  although  it  must  be  allowed  that  the 
graver  topics  to  which  they  are  devoted,  if  they 
did  not  authorize,  would  at  least  render  less  con- 
spicuous any  studied  formality  and  artifice  of 
expression. 

These  verbal  blemishes,  combined  with  defects 
already  alluded  to  in  the  development  of  his  plots, 
but  which  all  relate  to  the  form  rather  than  the 
fond  of  his  subject,  have  made  our  author  less 
extensively  popular  than  his  extraordinary  powers 
would  have  entitled  him  to  be.  His  peculiar 
merits,  indeed,  appeal  to  a  higher  order  of  criti- 
cism than  is  to  be  found  in  ordinary  and  super- 
ficial readers.  Like  the  productions  of  Coleridge 
or  Wordsworth,  they  seem  to  rely  on  deeper  sen- 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  5T 

sibilities  than  most  men  possess,  and  tax  the  rea- 
soning powers  more  severely  than  is  agreeable  to 
readers  who  resort  to  works  of  fiction  only  as  an 
epicurean  indulgence.  The  number  of  their  ad- 
mirers is  therefore  necessarily  more  limited  than 
that  of  writers  of  less  talent,  who  have  shown  more 
tact  in  accommodating  themselves  to  the  tone  of 
popular  feeling  or  prejudice. 

But  we  are  unwilling  to  part,  with  anything 
like  a  tone  of  disparagement  lingering  on  our  lips, 
with  the  amiable  author  to  whom  our  rising  litera- 
ture is  under  such  large  and  various  obligations; 
who  first  opened  a  view  into  the  boundless  fields 
of  fiction  which  subsequent  adventurers  have  suc- 
cessfully explored;  who  has  furnished  so  much 
for  our  instruction  in  the  several  departments  of 
history  and  criticism,  and  has  rendered  still  more 
effectual  service  by  kindling  in  the  bosom  of  the 
youthful  scholar  the  same  generous  love  of  letters 
which  glowed  in  his  own;  whose  writings,  in  fine, 
have  uniformly  inculcated  the  pure  and  elevated 
morality  exemplified  in  his  life.  The  only  thing 
we  can  regret  is  that  a  life  so  useful  should  have 
been  so  short,  if,  indeed,  that  can  be  considered 
short  which  has  done  so  much  towards  attaining 
life's  great  end. 


ASYLUM   FOR   THE    BLIND* 

(July,   1830) 

rpHERE  is  nothing  in  which  the  moderns  sur- 
-•■  pass  the  ancients  more  conspicuously  than 
in  their  noble  provisions  for  the  relief  of  indigence 
and  distress.  The  public  policy  of  the  ancients 
seems  to  have  embraced  only  whatever  might  pro- 
mote the  aggrandizement  or  the  direct  prosperity 
of  the  state,  and  to  have  cared  little  for  those  un- 
fortunate beings  who,  from  disease  or  incapacity 
of  any  kind,  were  disqualified  from  contributing 
to  this.  But  the  beneficent  influence  of  Christian- 
ity, combined  with  the  general  tendency  of  our 
social  institutions,  has  led  to  the  recognition  of 
rights  in  the  individual  as  sacred  as  those  of  the 
community,  and  has  suggested  manifold  provis- 
ions for  personal  comfort  and  happiness. 

The  spirit  of  benevolence,  thus  widely,  and 
oftentimes  judiciously,  exerted,  continued  until  a 
very  recent  period,  however,  strangely  insensible 
to  the  claims  of  a  large  class  of  objects  to  whom 
nature,  and  no  misconduct  or  imprudence  of  their 
own,  as  is  too  often  the  case  with  the  subjects  of 
public  charity,  had  denied  some  of  the  most  esti- 
mable faculties  of  man.  No  suitable  institutions, 
until  the  close  of  the  last  century,  have  been  pro- 
vided for  the  nurture  of  the  deaf  and  dumb,  or 

*  An  Act  to  Incorporate  the  New  England  Asylum  for  the  Blind. 
Approved  March  2d,  1829. 
58 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  59 

the  blind.  Immured  within  hospitals  and  alms- 
houses, like  so  many  lunatics  and  incurables,  they 
have  been  delivered  over,  if  they  escaped  the  physi- 
cal, to  all  the  moral  contagion  too  frequently  inci- 
dent to  such  abodes,  and  have  thus  been  involved 
in  a  mental  darkness  far  more  deplorable  than 
their  bodily  one. 

This  injudicious  treatment  has  resulted  from 
the  erroneous  principle  of  viewing  these  unfortu- 
nate beings  as  an  absolute  burden  on  the  public, 
utterly  incapable  of  contributing  to  their  own  sub- 
sistence or  of  ministering  in  any  degree  to  their 
own  intellectual  wants.  Instead,  however,  of 
being  degraded  by  such  unworthy  views,  they 
should  have  been  regarded  as,  what  in  truth  they 
are,  possessed  of  corporeal  and  mental  capacities 
perfectly  competent,  under  proper  management, 
to  the  production  of  the  most  useful  results.  If 
wisdom  from  one  entrance  was  quite  shut  out, 
other  avenues  for  its  admission  still  remained  to 
be  opened. 

In  order  to  give  effective  aid  to  persons  in  this 
predicament,  it  is  necessary  to  place  ourselves  as 
far  as  possible  in  their  peculiar  situation,  to  con- 
sider to  what  faculties  this  insulated  condition  is, 
on  the  whole,  most  favorable,  and  in  what  direc- 
tion they  can  be  exercised  with  the  best  chance  of 
success.  Without  such  foresight,  all  our  endeav- 
ors to  aid  them  will  only  put  them  upon  efforts 
above  their  strength,  and  result  in  serious  morti- 
fication. 

The  blind,  from  the  cheerful  ways  of  men  cut 
off,  are  necessarily  excluded  from  the  busy  theatre 


60  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

of  human  action.  Their  infirmity,  however,  which 
consigns  them  to  darkness,  and  often  to  soHtude, 
would  seem  favorable  to  contemplative  habits  and 
to  the  pursuits  of  abstract  science  and  pure  specu- 
lation. Undisturbed  by  external  objects,  the  mind 
necessarily  turns  within,  and  concentrates  its  ideas 
on  any  point  of  investigation  with  greater  intensity 
and  perseverance.  It  is  no  uncommon  thing, 
therefore,  to  find  persons  setting  apart  the  silent 
hours  of  the  evening  for  the  purpose  of  compo- 
sition or  other  purely  intellectual  exercise.  Male- 
branche,  when  he  wished  to  think  intensely,  used 
to  close  his  shutters  in  the  daytime,  excluding 
every  ray  of  light;  and  hence  Democritus  is  said 
to  have  put  out  his  eyes  in  order  that  he  might 
philosophize  the  better, — a  story  the  veracity  of 
which  Cicero,  who  relates  it,  is  prudent  enough  not 
to  vouch  for. 

BHndness  must  also  be  exceedingly  favorable  to 
the  disciphne  of  the  memory.  Whoever  has  had 
the  misfortune,  from  any  derangement  of  the 
organ,  to  be  compelled  to  derive  his  knowledge  of 
books  less  from  the  eye  than  the  ear,  will  feel  the 
truth  of  this.  The  difficulty  of  recalling  what  has 
once  escaped,  of  reverting  to  or  dwelling  on  the 
passages  read  aloud  by  another,  compels  the  hearer 
to  give  undivided  attention  to  the  subject,  and  to 
impress  it  more  forcibly  on  his  own  mind  by  sub- 
sequent and  methodical  reflection.  Instances  of 
the  cultivation  of  this  faculty  to  an  extraordinary 
extent  have  been  witnessed  among  the  blind,  and 
it  has  been  most  advantageously  applied  to  the 
pursuit  of  abstract  science,  especially  mathematics. 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  61 

One  of  the  most  eminent  illustrations  of  these 
remarks  is  the  well-known  history  of  Saunderson, 
who,  though  deprived  in  his  infancy  not  only  of 
sight,  but  of  the  organ  itself,  contrived  to  become 
so  well  acquainted  with  the  Greek  tongue  as  to 
read  the  works  of  the  ancient  mathematicians  in 
the  original.  He  made  such  advances  in  the  higher 
departments  of  the  science  that  he  was  appointed, 
"  though  not  matriculated  at  the  University,"  to 
fill  the  chair  which  a  short  time  previous  had  been 
occupied  by  Sir  Isaac  Newton  at  Cambridge.  The 
lectures  of  this  blind  professor  on  the  most  ab- 
struse points  of  the  N^ewtonian  philosophy,  and 
especially  on  optics,  naturally  filled  his  audience 
with  admiration;  and  the  perspicuity  with  which 
he  communicated  his  ideas  is  said  to  have  been 
unequalled.  He  was  enabled,  by  the  force  of  his 
memory,  to  perform  many  long  operations  in 
arithmetic,  and  to  carry  in  his  mind  the  most  com- 
plex geometrical  figures.  As,  however,  it  became 
necessary  to  supply  the  want  of  vision  by  some 
symbols  which  might  be  sensible  to  the  touch,  he 
contrived  a  table  in  which  pins,  whose  value  was 
determined  principally  by  their  relative  position 
to  each  other,  served  him  instead  of  figures,  while 
for  his  diagrams  he  employed  pegs,  inserted  at 
the  requisite  angles  to  each  other,  representing 
the  lines  by  threads  drawn  around  them.  He  was 
so  expert  in  the  use  of  these  materials  that  when 
performing  his  calculations  he  would  change  the 
position  of  the  pins  with  nearly  the  same  facility 
that  another  person  would  indite  figures,  and 
when  disturbed  in  an  operation  would  afterwards 


62  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

resume  it  again,  ascertaining  the  posture  in  which 
he  had  left  it  by  passing  his  hand  carefully  over 
the  table.  To  such  shifts  and  inventions  does 
human  ingenuity  resort  when  stimulated  by  the 
thirst  of  knowledge;  as  the  plant,  when  thrown 
into  shade  on  one  side,  sends  forth  its  branches 
eagerly  in  that  direction  where  the  light  is  per- 
mitted to  fall  upon  it. 

In  like  manner,  the  celebrated  mathematician 
Euler  continued,  for  many  years  after  he  became 
blind  to  indite  and  publish  the  results  of  his  scien- 
tific labors,  and  at  the  time  of  his  decease  left 
nearly  a  hundred  memoirs  ready  for  the  press, 
most  of  which  have  since  been  given  to  the  world. 
An  example  of  diligence  equally  indefatigable, 
though  turned  in  a  different  channel,  occurs  in 
our  contemporary  Huber,  who  has  contributed  one 
of  the  most  delightful  volumes  within  the  compass 
of  natural  history,  and  who,  if  he  employed  the 
eyes  of  another,  guided  them  in  their  investigation 
to  the  right  results  by  the  light  of  his  own  mind. 

Blindness  would  seem  to  be  propitious,  also,  to 
the  exercise  of  the  inventive  powers.  Hence 
poetry,  from  the  time  of  Thamyris  and  the  blind 
Mseonides  down  to  the  Welsh  harper  and  the 
ballad-grinder  of  our  day,  has  been  assigned  as 
the  pecuHar  province  of  those  bereft  of  vision, 

"As  the  wakeful  bird 
Sings  darkling,  and,  in  shadiest  cover  hid. 
Tunes  her  nocturnal  note." 

The  greatest  epic  poem  of  antiquity  was  probably, 
as  that  of  the  moderns  was  certainly,  composed  in 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  63 

darkness.  It  is  easy  to  understand  how  the  man 
who  has  once  seen  can  recall  and  body  forth  in  his 
conceptions  new  combinations  of  material  beauty; 
but  it  would  seem  scarcely  possible  that  one  born 
blind,  excluded  from  all  acquaintance  with  "  col- 
ored nature,"  as  Condillac  finely  styles  it,  should 
excel  in  descriptive  poetry.  Yet  there  are  eminent 
examples  of  this;  among  others,  that  of  Black- 
lock,  whose  verses  abound  in  the  most  agreeable 
and  picturesque  images.  Yet  he  could  have 
formed  no  other  idea  of  colors  than  was  conveyed 
by  their  moral  associations,  the  source,  indeed,  of 
most  of  the  pleasures  we  derive  from  descriptive 
poetry.  It  was  thus  that  he  studied  the  variegated 
aspect  of  nature,  and  read  in  it  the  successive  revo- 
lutions of  the  seasons,  their  freshness,  their  prime, 
and  decay. 

Mons.  Guillie,  in  an  interesting  essay  on  the 
instruction  of  the  blind,  to  which  we  shall  have 
occasion  repeatedly  to  refer,  quotes  an  example  of 
the  association  of  ideas  in  regard  to  colors,  which 
occurred  in  one  of  his  own  pupils,  who,  in  reciting 
the  well-known  passage  in  Horace,  "  ruhente  dex- 
ter a  sacras  jaculatus  arces,"  translated  the  first 
two  words  by  "  fiery  "  or  "  burning  right  hand." 
On  being  requested  to  render  it  literally,  he  called 
it  "  red  right  hand,"  and  gave  as  the  reason  for  his 
former  version  that  he  could  form  no  positive  con- 
ception of  a  red  color ;  but  that,  as  fire  was  said  to 
be  red,  he  connected  the  idea  of  heat  with  this  color, 
and  had  therefore  interpreted  the  wrath  of  Jupi- 
ter, demolishing  town  and  tower,  by  the  epithet 
"  fiery  or  burning;  "  for  "  when  people  are  angry," 


64  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

he  added,  "  they  are  hot,  and  when  they  are  hot, 
they  must  of  course  be  red."  He  certainly  seems 
to  have  formed  a  much  more  accurate  notion  of 
red  than  Locke's  bUnd  man. 

But  while  a  gift  for  poetry  belongs  only  to  the 
inspired  few,  and  while  many  have  neither  taste 
nor  talent  for  mathematical  or  speculative  science, 
it  is  a  consolation  to  reflect  that  the  humblest  indi- 
vidual who  is  destitute  of  sight  may  so  far  supply 
this  deficiency  by  the  perfection  of  the  other  senses 
as  by  their  aid  to  attain  a  considerable  degree  of 
intellectual  culture,  as  well  as  a  familiarity  with 
some  of  the  most  useful  mechanic  arts.  It  will  be 
easier  to  conceive  to  what  extent  the  perceptions 
of  touch  and  hearing  may  be  refined  if  we  reflect 
how  far  that  of  sight  is  sharpened  by  exclusive 
reliance  on  it  in  certain  situations.  Thus  the  mari- 
ner descries  objects  at  night,  and  at  a  distance 
upon  the  ocean,  altogether  imperceptible  to  the 
unpractised  eye  of  a  landsman.  And  the  North 
American  Indian  steers  his  course  undeviatingly 
through  the  trackless  wilderness,  guided  only  by 
such  signs  as  escape  the  eye  of  the  most  inquisitive 
white  man. 

In  like  manner,  the  senses  of  hearing  and  feel- 
ing are  capable  of  attaining  such  a  degree  of  per- 
fection in  a  blind  person  that  by  them  alone  he  can 
distinguish  his  various  acquaintances,  and  even  the 
presence  of  persons  whom  he  has  but  rarely  met 
before,  the  size  of  the  apartment,  and  the  general 
locality  of  the  spots  in  which  he  may  happen  to  be, 
and  guide  himself  safely  across  the  most  solitary 
districts  and  amid  the  throng  of  towns.    Dr.  Bew, 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  65 

in  a  paper  in  the  Manchester  Collection  of  Me- 
moirs, gives  an  account  of  a  blind  man  of  his 
acquaintance  in  Derbyshire,  who  was  much  used 
as  a  guide  for  travellers  in  the  night  over  certain 
intricate  roads,  and  particularly  when  the  tracks 
were  covered  with  snow.  This  same  man  was 
afterwards  employed  as  a  projector  and  surveyor 
of  roads  in  that  county.  We  well  remember  a 
blind  man  in  the  neighboring  town  of  Salem,  who 
officiated  some  twenty  years  since  as  the  town  crier, 
when  that  functionary  performed  many  of  the 
advertising  duties  now  usurped  by  the  newspaper, 
making  his  diurnal  round,  and  stopping  with  great 
precision  at  every  corner,  trivium  or  quadrivium, 
to  "  chime  his  melodious  twang."  Yet  this  feat, 
the  familiarity  of  which  prevented  it  from  occa- 
sioning any  surprise,  could  have  resulted  only 
from  the  nicest  observation  of  the  undulations  of 
the  ground,  or  by  an  attention  to  the  currents  of 
air,  or  the  different  sound  of  the  voice  or  other 
noises  in  these  openings,  signs  altogether  lost  upon 
the  man  of  eyes. 

Mons.  Guillie  mentions  several  apparently  well- 
attested  anecdotes  of  blind  persons  who  had  the 
power  of  discriminating  colors  by  the  touch.  One 
of  the  individuals  noticed  by  him,  a  Dutchman, 
was  so  expert  in  this  way  that  he  was  sure  to  come 
oiF  conqueror  at  the  card-table  by  the  knowledge 
which  he  thus  obtained  of  his  adversary's  hand 
whenever  it  came  to  his  turn  to  deal.  This  power 
of  discrimination  of  colors,  which  seems  to  be  a 
gift  only  of  a  very  few  of  the  finer-fingered  gen- 
try, must  be  founded  on  the  different  consistency 

Vol.  I.— 5 


66  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

or  smoothness  of  the  ingredients  used  in  the 
various  dyes.  A  more  certain  method  of  ascertain- 
ing these  colors,  that  of  tasting  or  touching  them 
with  the  tongue,  is  frequently  resorted  to  by  the 
blind,  who  by  this  means  often  distinguish  between 
those  analogous  colors,  as  black  and  dark  blue,  red 
and  pink,  which,  having  the  greatest  apparent 
affinity,  not  unfrequently  deceive  the  eye. 

Diderot,  in  an  ingenious  letter  on  the  blind, 
a  Vusage  de  ceuoc  qui  volenti  has  given  a  circum- 
stantial narration  of  his  visit  to  a  blind  man  at 
Puisseaux,  the  son  of  a  professor  in  the  University 
of  Paris,  and  well  known  in  his  day  from  the 
various  accomplishments  and  manual  dexterity 
which  he  exhibited,  remarkable  in  a  person  in  his 
situation.  Being  asked  what  notion  he  had  formed 
of  an  eye,  he  replied,  "  I  conceive  it  to  be  an  organ 
on  which  the  air  produces  the  same  effect  as  this 
staff  on  my  hand.  If,  when  you  are  looking  at  an 
object,  I  should  interpose  anything  between  your 
eyes  and  that  object,  it  would  prevent  you  from 
seeing  it.  And  I  am  in  the  same  predicament 
when  I  seek  one  thing  with  my  staff  and  come 
across  another."  An  explanation,  says  Diderot, 
as  lucid  as  any  which  could  be  given  by  Descartes, 
who,  it  is  singular,  attempts,  in  his  Dioptrics,  to 
explain  the  analogy  between  the  senses  of  feel- 
ing and  seeing  by  figures  of  men  blindfolded, 
groping  their  way  with  staffs  in  their  hands.  This 
same  intelligent  personage  became  so  familiar  with 
the  properties  of  touch  that  he  seems  to  have  ac- 
counted them  almost  equally  valuable  with  those 
of  vision.    On  being  interrogated  if  he  felt  a  great 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  67 

desire  to  have  eyes,  he  answered,  "  Were  it  not  for 
the  mere  gratification  of  curiosity,  I  think  I  should 
do  as  well  to  wish  for  long  arms.  It  seems  to  me 
that  my  hands  would  inform  me  better  of  what  is 
going  on  in  the  moon  than  your  eyes  and  tele- 
scopes ;  and  then  the  eyes  lose  the  power  of  vision 
more  readily  than  the  hands  that  of  feeling.  It 
would  be  better  to  perfect  the  organ  which  I  have 
than  to  bestow  on  me  that  which  I  have  not." 

Indeed,  the  "  geometric  sense "  of  touch,  as 
BuiFon  terms  it,  as  far  as  it  reaches,  is  more  faith- 
ful, and  conveys  oftentimes  a  more  satisfactory 
idea  of  external  forms,  than  the  eye  itself.  The 
great  defect  is  that  its  range  is  necessarily  so  lim- 
ited. It  is  told  of  Saunderson  that  on  one  occasion 
he  detected  by  his  finger  a  counterfeit  coin  which 
had  deceived  the  eye  of  a  connoisseur.  We  are 
hardly  aware  how  much  of  our  dexterity  in  the  use 
of  the  eye  arises  from  incessant  practice.  Those 
who  have  been  relieved  from  blindness  at  an  ad- 
vanced, or  even  early,  period  of  life,  have  been 
found  frequently  to  recur  to  the  old  and  more 
familiar  sense  of  touch,  in  preference  to  the  sight. 
The  celebrated  English  anatomist  Cheselden  men- 
tions several  illustrations  of  this  fact  in  an  account 
given  by  him  of  a  blind  boy  whom  he  had  success- 
fully couched  for  cataracts  at  the  age  of  fourteen. 
It  was  long  before  the  youth  could  discriminate 
by  his  eye  between  his  old  companions  the  family 
cat  and  dog,  dissimilar  as  such  animals  appear  to 
us  in  color  and  conformation.  Being  ashamed  to 
ask  the  oft-repeated  question,  he  was  observed  one 
day  to  pass  his  hand  carefully  over  the  cat,  and 


68  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

then,  looking  at  her  steadfastly,  to  exclaim,  "  So, 
puss,  I  shall  know  you  another  time."  It  is  more 
natural  that  he  should  have  been  deceived  by  the 
illusory  art  of  painting,  and  it  was  long  before  he 
could  comprehend  that  the  objects  depicted  did 
not  possess  the  same  relief  on  the  canvas  as  in 
nature.  He  inquired,  "  Which  is  the  lying  sense 
here,  the  sight  or  the  touch?  " 

The  faculty  of  hearing  would  seem  susceptible 
of  a  similar  refinement  with  that  of  seeing.  To 
prove  this  without  going  into  farther  detail,  it  is 
only  necessary  to  observe  that  much  the  larger  pro- 
portion of  blind  persons  are,  more  or  less,  profi- 
cients in  music,  and  that  in  some  of  the  institutions 
for  their  education,  as  that  in  Paris,  for  instance, 
all  the  pupils  are  instructed  in  this  delightful  art. 
The  gift  of  a  natural  ear  for  melody,  therefore, 
deemed  comparatively  rare  with  the  clairvoyans, 
would  seem  to  exist  so  far  in  every  individual  as  to 
be  capable,  by  a  suitable  cultivation,  of  affording 
a  high  degree  of  relish,  at  least  to  himself. 

As,  in  order  to  a  successful  education  of  the 
blind,  it  becomes  necessary  to  understand  what  are 
the  faculties,  intellectual  and  corporeal,  to  the  de- 
velopment and  exercise  of  which  their  peculiar 
condition  is  best  adapted,  so  it  is  equally  necessary 
to  understand  how  far,  and  in  what  manner,  their 
moral  constitution  is  likely  to  be  affected  by  the 
insulated  position  in  which  they  are  placed.  The 
blind  man,  shut  up  within  the  precincts  of  his  own 
microcosm,  is  subjected  to  influences  of  a  very 
different  complexion  from  the  bulk  of  mankind, 
inasmuch  as  each  of  the  senses  is  best  fitted  to  the 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  69 

introduction  of  a  certain  class  of  ideas  into  the 
mind,  and  he  is  deprived  of  that  one  through  which 
the  rest  of  his  species  receive  by  far  the  greatest 
number  of  theirs.  Thus  it  will  be  readily  under- 
stood that  his  notions  of  modesty  and  dehcacy 
may  a  good  deal  differ  from  those  of  the  world  at 
large.  The  blind  man  of  Puisseaux  confessed 
that  he  could  not  comprehend  why  it  should  be 
reckoned  improper  to  expose  one  part  of  the  per- 
son rather  than  another.  Indeed,  the  conventional 
rules,  so  necessarily  adopted  in  society  in  this  rela- 
tion, might  seem  in  a  great  degree  superfluous  in 
a  blind  community. 

The  blind  man  would  seem,  also,  to  be  less  likely 
to  be  endowed  with  the  degree  of  sensibility  usual 
with  those  who  enjoy  the  blessing  of  sight.  It  is 
difficult  to  say  how  much  of  our  early  education 
depends  on  the  looks,  the  frowns,  the  smiles,  the 
tears,  the  example,  in  fact,  of  those  placed  over 
and  around  us.  From  all  this  the  blind  child  is 
necessarily  excluded.  These,  however,  are  the 
great  sources  of  s\Tnpathy.  We  feel  little  for  the 
joys  or  the  sorrows  which  w^e  do  not  witness. 
"  Out  of  sight,  out  of  mind,"  says  the  old  proverb. 
Hence  people  are  so  ready  to  turn  away  from  dis- 
tress which  they  cannot,  or  their  avarice  will  not 
suffer  them  to  relieve.  Hence,  too,  persons  w^hose 
compassionate  hearts  would  bleed  at  the  infliction 
of  an  act  of  cruelty  on  so  large  an  animal  as  a 
horse  or  a  dog,  for  example,  will  crush  without 
concern  a  wilderness  of  insects,  whose  delicate  or- 
ganization and  whose  bodily  agonies  are  imper- 
ceptible to  the  naked  eye.     The  sHghtest  injury 


70  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

occurring  in  our  own  presence  affects  us  infinitely 
more  than  the  tidings  of  the  most  murderous 
battle,  or  the  sack  of  the  most  populous  and  flour- 
isliing  city  at  the  extremity  of  the  globe.  Yet 
such,  without  much  exaggeration,  is  the  relative 
position  of  the  blind,  removed  by  their  infirmity 
at  a  distance  from  the  world,  from  the  daily  exhi- 
bition of  those  mingled  scenes  of  grief  and  glad- 
ness which  have  their  most  important  uses,  per- 
haps, in  calling  forth  our  sympathies  for  our 
fellow-creatures. 

It  has  been  affirmed  that  the  situation  of  the 
bHnd  is  unpropitious  to  religious  sentiment.  They 
are  necessarily  insensible  to  the  grandeur  of  the 
spectacle  which  forces  itself  upon  our  senses  every 
day  of  our  existence.  The  magnificent  map  of 
the  heavens,  with 

"  Every  star 
Which  the  clear  concave  of  a  winter's  night 
Pours  on  the  eye," 

is  not  unrolled  for  them.  The  revolutions  of  the 
seasons,  with  all  their  beautiful  varieties  of  form 
and  color,  and  whatever  glories  of  the  creation 
lift  the  soul  in  wonder  and  gratitude  to  the 
Creator,  are  not  for  them.  Their  world  is  circum- 
scribed by  the  little  circle  which  they  can  span 
with  their  own  arms.  All  beyond  has  for  them  no 
real  existence.  This  seems  to  have  passed  within 
the  mind  of  the  mathematician  Saunderson,  whose 
notions  of  a  Deity  would  seem  to  have  been,  to  the 
last,  exceedingly  vague  and  unsettled.  The  cler- 
gyman who  visited  him  in  his  latter  hours  endeav- 
ored to  impress  upon  him  the  evidence  of  a  God 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  71 

as  afforded  by  the  astonishing  mechanism  of  the 
universe.  Alas!"  said  the  dying  philosopher, 
"  I  have  been  condemned  to  pass  my  life  in  dark- 
ness, and  you  speak  to  me  of  prodigies  which  I 
cannot  comprehend,  and  which  can  only  be  felt 
by  you  and  those  who  see  like  you."  When  re- 
minded of  the  faith  of  Newton,  Leibnitz,  and 
Clarke,  minds  from  which  he  had  drunk  so  deeply 
of  instruction,  and  for  whom  he  entertained  the 
profoundest  veneration,  he  remarked,  "  The  testi- 
mony of  Newton  is  not  so  strong  for  me  as  that 
of  Nature  was  for  him:  Newton  believed  on  the 
word  of  God  himself,  while  I  am  reduced  to 
believe  on  that  of  Newton."  He  expired  with  this 
ejaculation  on  his  lips:  "God  of  Newton,  have 
mercy  on  me  I  " 

These,  however,  may  be  considered  as  the 
peevish  ebullitions  of  a  naturally  sceptical  and 
somewhat  disappointed  spirit,  impatient  of  an  in- 
firmity which  obstructed,  as  he  conceived,  his 
advancement  in  the  career  of  science  to  which  he 
had  so  zealously  devoted  himself.  It  was  in  allu- 
sion to  this,  undoubtedly,  that  he  depicted  his  life 
as  having  been  "  one  long  desire  and  continued 
privation." 

It  is  far  more  reasonable  to  believe  that  there 
are  certain  peculiarities  in  the  condition  of  the 
blind  which  more  than  counterbalance  the  unpro- 
pitious  circumstances  above  described,  and  which 
have  a  decided  tendency  to  awaken  devotional  sen- 
timent in  their  minds.  They  are  the  subjects  of 
a  grievous  calamity,  which,  as  in  all  such  cases, 
naturally  disposes  the  heart  to  sober  reflection. 


12  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

and,  when  permanent  and  irremediable,  to  passive 
resignation.  Their  situation  necessarily  excludes 
most  of  those  temptations  which  so  sorely  beset  us 
in  the  world, — those  tumultuous  passions  which,  in 
the  general  rivalry,  divide  man  from  man  and  em- 
bitter the  sweet  cup  of  social  hfe, — ^those  appe- 
tites which  degrade  us  to  the  level  of  the  brutes. 
They  are  subjected,  on  the  contrary,  to  the  most 
healthful  influences.  Their  occupations  are  of  a 
tranquil,  and  oftentimes  of  a  purely  intellectual, 
character.  Their  pleasures  are  derived  from  the 
endearments  of  domestic  intercourse,  and  the  at- 
tentions almost  always  conceded  to  persons  in  their 
dependent  condition  must  necessarily  beget  a  re- 
ciprocal kindliness  of  feeling  in  their  own  bosoms. 
In  short,  the  uniform  tenor  of  their  lives  is  such 
as  naturally  to  dispose  them  to  resignation,  seren- 
ity, and  cheerfulness;  and  accordingly,  as  far  as 
our  own  experience  goes,  these  have  usually  been 
the  characteristics  of  the  blind. 

Indeed,  the  cheerfulness  almost  universally  inci- 
dent to  persons  deprived  of  sight  leads  us  to  con- 
sider blindness  as,  on  the  whole,  a  less  calamity 
than  deafness.  The  deaf  man  is  continually  ex- 
posed to  the  sight  of  pleasures  and  to  society  in 
which  he  can  take  no  part.  He  is  the  guest  at  a 
banquet  of  which  he  is  not  permitted  to  partake, 
the  spectator  at  a  theatre  where  he  cannot  compre- 
hend a  syllable.  If  the  blind  man  is  excluded 
from  sources  of  enjoyment  equally  important,  he 
has  at  least  the  advantage  of  not  perceiving,  and 
not  even  comprehending,  what  he  has  lost.  It  may 
be  added  that  perhaps  the  greatest  privation  con- 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  73 

sequent  on  blindness  is  the  inability  to  read,  as  that 
on  deafness  is  the  loss  of  the  pleasures  of  society. 
Now,  the  eyes  of  another  may  be  made  in  a  great 
degree  to  supply  this  defect  of  the  blind  man, 
while  no  art  can  afford  a  corresponding  substitute 
to  the  deaf  for  the  privations  to  which  he  is  doomed 
in  social  intercourse.  He  cannot  hear  with  the 
ears  of  another.  As,  however,  it  is  undeniable  that 
bhndness  makes  one  more  dependent  than  deaf- 
ness, we  may  be  content  with  the  conclusion  that 
the  former  would  be  the  most  eligible  for  the  rich, 
and  the  latter  for  the  poor.  Our  remarks  will  be 
understood  as  applying  to  those  only  who  are 
wholly  destitute  of  the  faculties  of  sight  and  hear- 
ing. A  person  afflicted  only  with  a  partial  de- 
rangement or  infirmity  of  vision  is  placed  in  the 
same  tantalizing  predicament  above  described  of 
the  deaf,  and  is,  consequently,  found  to  be  usually 
of  a  far  more  impatient  and  irritable  temperament, 
and,  consequently,  less  happy,  than  the  totally 
blind.  With  all  this,  we  doubt  whether  there  be 
one  of  our  readers,  even  should  he  assent  to  the 
general  truth  of  our  remarks,  who  would  not  infi- 
nitely prefer  to  incur  partial  to  total  blindness,  and 
deafness  to  either.  Such  is  the  prejudice  in  favor 
of  eyes ! 

Patience,  perseverance,  habits  of  industry,  and, 
above  all,  a  craving  appetite  for  knowledge,  are 
sufficiently  common  to  be  considered  as  character- 
istics of  the  blind,  and  have  tended  greatly  to  facili- 
tate their  education,  which  must  otherwise  prove 
somewhat  tedious,  and,  indeed,  doubtful  as  to  its 
results,  considering  the  formidable  character  of 


74  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

the  obstacles  to  be  encountered.  A  curious  in- 
stance of  perseverance  in  overcoming  such  obsta- 
cles occurred  in  Paris,  when  the  institutions  for  the 
deaf  and  dumb  and  for  the  blind  were  assembled 
under  the  same  roof  in  the  convent  of  the  Celes- 
tines.  The  pupils  of  the  two  seminaries,  notwith- 
standing the  apparently  insurmountable  barrier 
interposed  between  them  by  their  respective  in- 
firmities, contrived  to  open  a  communication  with 
each  other,  which  they  carried  on  with  the  greatest 
vivacity. 

It  was  probably  the  consideration  of  those  moral 
qualities,  as  well  as  of  the  capacity  for  improve- 
ment which  we  have  described  as  belonging  to  the 
blind,  which  induced  the  benevolent  Haiiy,  in  con- 
junction with  the  Philanthropic  Society  of  Paris, 
to  open  there,  in  1784,  the  first  regular  seminary 
for  their  education  ever  attempted.  This  institu- 
tion underwent  several  modifications,  not  for  the 
better,  during  the  revolutionary  period  which  fol- 
lowed; until,  in  1816,  it  was  placed  on  the  respect- 
able basis  on  which  it  now  exists,  under  the  direc- 
tion of  Dr.  Guillie,  whose  untiring  exertions  have 
been  blessed  with  the  most  beneficial  results. 

We  shall  give  a  brief  view  of  the  course  of  edu- 
cation pursued  under  his  direction,  as  exhibited  by 
him  in  the  valuable  treatise  to  which  we  have 
already  referred,  occasionally  glancing  at  the 
method  adopted  in  the  corresponding  institution 
at  Edinburgh. 

The  fundamental  object  proposed  in  every 
scheme  of  education  for  the  blind  is,  to  direct  the 
attention  of  the  pupil  to  those  studies  and  me- 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  75 

chanic  arts  which  he  will  be  able  afterwards  to 
pursue  by  means  of  his  own  exertions  and  re- 
sources, without  any  external  aid.  The  sense  of 
touch  is  the  one,  therefore,  almost  exclusively  re- 
lied on.  The  fingers  are  the  eyes  of  the  blind. 
They  are  taught  to  read  in  Paris  by  feeling  the 
surface  of  metallic  types,  and  in  Edinburgh  by 
means  of  letters  raised  on  a  blank  leaf  of  paper. 
If  they  are  previously  acquainted  with  spelUng, 
which  may  be  easily  taught  them  before  entering 
the  institution,  they  learn  to  discriminate  the  sev- 
eral letters  with  great  facility.  Their  perceptions 
become  so  fine  by  practice  that  they  can  discern 
even  the  finest  print,  and,  when  the  fingers  fail 
them,  readily  distinguish  it  by  applying  the 
tongue.  A  similar  method  is  employed  for  in- 
structing them  in  figures;  the  notation-table  in- 
vented by  Saunderson,  and  once  used  in  the  Paris 
seminary,  having  been  abandoned  as  less  simple 
and  obvious,  although  his  symbols  for  the  rep- 
resentation of  geometrical  diagrams  are  still 
retained. 

As  it  would  be  labor  lost  to  learn  the  art  of  read- 
ing without  having  books  to  read,  various  attempts 
have  been  made  to  supply  this  desideratum.  The 
first  hint  of  the  form  now  adopted  for  the  im- 
pression of  these  books  was  suggested  by  the 
appearance  exhibited  on  the  reverse  side  of  a  copy 
as  removed  fresh  from  the  printing-press.  In 
imitation  of  this,  a  leaf  of  paper  of  a  firm  texture 
is  forcibly  impressed  with  types  unstained  by  ink, 
and  larger  than  the  ordinary  size,  until  a  suffi- 
ciently bold  rehef  has  been  obtained  to  enable  the 


76  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

blind  person  to  distinguish  the  characters  by  the 
touch.  The  French  have  adopted  the  Italian  hand, 
or  one  very  like  it,  for  the  fashion  of  the  letters, 
while  the  Scotch  have  invented  one  more  angular 
and  rectilinear,  which,  besides  the  advantage  of 
greater  compactness,  is  found  better  suited  to  ac- 
curate discrimination  by  the  touch  than  smooth 
and  extended  curves  and  circles. 

Several  important  works  have  been  already 
printed  on  this  plan,  viz.,  a  portion  of  the  Script- 
ures, catechisms,  and  offices  for  daily  prayer; 
grammars  in  the  Greek,  Latin,  French,  English, 
Italian,  and  Spanish  languages;  a  Latin  selecta, 
a  geography,  a  course  of  general  history,  a  selec- 
tion from  English  poets  and  prose- writers,  a 
course  of  literature,  with  a  compilation  of  the 
choicest  specimens  of  French  eloquence.  With  all 
this,  the  art  of  printing  for  the  blind  is  still  in  its 
infancy.  The  characters  are  so  unwieldy,  and  the 
leaves  (which  cannot  be  printed  on  the  reverse  side, 
as  this  would  flatten  the  letters  upon  the  other)  are 
necessarily  so  numerous,  as  to  make  the  volume  ex- 
ceedingly bulky,  and  of  course  expensive.  The 
Gospel  of  St.  John,  for  example,  expands  into 
three  large  octavo  volumes.  Some  farther  im- 
provement must  occur,  therefore,  before  the  inven- 
tion can  become  extensively  useful.  There  can  be 
no  reason  to  doubt  of  such  a  result  eventually,  for 
it  is  only  by  long  and  repeated  experiment  that  the 
art  of  printing  in  the  usual  way,  and  every  other 
art,  indeed,  has  been  brought  to  its  present  per- 
fection. Perhaps  some  mode  may  be  adopted  like 
that  of  stenography,  which,  although  encumbering 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  77 

the  learner  with  some  additional  difficulties  at  first, 
may  abundantly  compensate  him  in  the  condensed 
forms  and  consequently  cheaper  and  more  numer- 
ous publications  which  could  be  afforded  by  it. 
Perhaps  ink  or  some  other  material  of  greater  con- 
sistency than  that  ordinarily  used  in  printing  may 
be  devised,  which,  when  communicated  by  the  type 
to  the  paper,  will  leave  a  character  sufficiently 
raised  to  be  distinguished  by  the  touch.  We  have 
known  a  blind  person  able  to  decipher  the  charac- 
ters in  a  piece  of  music  to  which  the  ink  had  been 
imparted  more  liberally  than  usual.  In  the  mean 
time,  what  has  been  already  done  has  conferred  a 
service  on  the  blind  which  we,  who  become  insen- 
sible from  the  very  prodigality  of  our  blessings, 
cannot  rightly  estimate.  The  glimmering  of  the 
taper,  which  is  lost  in  the  blaze  of  day,  is  sufficient 
to  guide  the  steps  of  the  wanderer  in  darkness. 
The  unsealed  volume  of  Scripture  will  furnish  him 
with  the  best  sources  of  consolation  under  every 
privation ;  the  various  grammars  are  so  many  keys 
with  which  to  unlock  the  stores  of  knowledge  to 
enrich  his  after-life;  and  the  selections  from  the 
most  beautiful  portions  of  elegant  literature  'vvill 
afford  him  a  permanent  source  of  recreation  and 
delight. 

One  method  used  for  instruction  in  writing  is, 
to  direct  the  pencil,  or  stylus,  in  a  groove  cut  in 
the  fashion  of  the  different  letters.  Other  modes, 
however,  too  complex  for  description  here,  are 
resorted  to,  by  which  the  blind  person  is  enabled 
not  only  to  write,  but  to  read  what  he  has  thus 
traced.    A  portable  writing-case  for  this  purpose 


78  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

has  also  been  invented  by  one  of  the  blind,  who,  it 
is  observed,  are  the  most  ingenious  in  supplying, 
as  they  are  best  acquainted  with,  their  own  wants. 
A  very  simple  method  of  epistolary  correspond- 
ence, by  means  of  a  string-alphabet,  as  it  is  called, 
consisting  of  a  cord  or  riband  in  which  knots  of 
various  dimensions  represent  certain  classes  of 
letters,  has  been  devised  by  two  blind  men  at  Edin- 
burgh. This  contrivance,  which  is  so  simple  that 
it  can  be  acquired  in  an  hour's  time  by  the  most 
ordinary  capacity,  is  asserted  to  have  the  power 
of  conveying  ideas  with  equal  precision  with  the 
pen.  A  blind  lady  of  our  acquaintance,  however, 
whose  fine  understanding  and  temper  have  enabled 
her  to  surmount  many  of  the  difficulties  of  her 
situation,  after  a  trial  of  this  invention,  gives  the 
preference  to  the  mode  usually  adopted  by  her  of 
pricking  the  letters  on  the  paper  with  a  pin, — an 
operation  which  she  performs  with  astonishing 
rapidity,  and  which,  in  addition  to  the  advantage 
possessed  by  the  string-alphabet  of  being  legible 
by  the  touch,  answers  more  completely  the  pur- 
poses of  epistolary  correspondence,  since  it  may 
be  readily  interpreted  by  any  one  on  being  held 
up  to  the  hght. 

The  scheme  of  instruction  at  the  institution  for 
the  blind  in  Paris  comprehends  geography,  his- 
tory, the  Greek  and  Latin,  together  with  the 
French,  Italian,  and  English  languages,  arithme- 
tic and  the  higher  branches  of  mathematics,  music, 
and  some  of  the  most  useful  mechanic  arts.  For 
mathematics  the  pupils  appear  to  discover  a  natu- 
ral aptitude,  many  of  them  attaining  such  profi- 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  79 

ciency  as  not  only  to  profit  by  the  public  lectures 
of  the  most  eminent  professors  in  the  sciences,  but 
to  carry  away  the  highest  prizes  in  the  lyceums  in 
a  competition  with  those  who  possess  the  advan- 
tages of  sight.  In  music,  as  we  have  before  re- 
marked, they  aU  make  greater  or  less  proficiency. 
They  are  especially  instructed  in  the  organ,  which, 
from  its  frequency  in  the  churches,  affords  one  of 
the  most  obvious  means  of  obtaining  a  livelihood. 

The  method  of  tuition  adopted  is  that  of  mutual 
instruction.  The  blind  are  ascertained  to  learn 
most  easily  and  expeditiously  from  those  in  the 
same  condition  with  themselves.  Two  male  teach- 
ers, with  one  female,  are  in  this  way  found  ade- 
quate to  the  superintendence  of  eighty  scholars, 
which,  considering  the  obstacles  to  be  encountered, 
must  be  admitted  to  be  a  small  apparatus  for  the 
production  of  such  extensive  results. 

In  teaching  them  the  mechanic  arts,  two  prin- 
ciples appear  to  be  kept  in  view,  namely,  to  select 
such  for  each  individual  respectively  as  may  be 
best  adapted  to  his  future  residence  and  destina- 
tion; the  trades,  for  example,  most  suitable  for  a 
sea-port  being  those  least  so  for  the  country,  and 
vice  versa.  Secondly,  to  confine  their  attention  to 
such  occupations  as  from  their  nature  are  most 
accessible  to,  and  which  can  be  most  perfectly  at- 
tained by,  persons  in  their  situation.  It  is  absurd 
to  multiply  obstacles  from  the  mere  vanity  of 
conquering  them. 

Printing  is  an  art  for  which  the  blind  show  par- 
ticular talent,  going  through  all  the  processes  of 
composing,  serving  the  press,  and  distributing  the 


80  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

types  with  the  same  accuracy  with  those  who  can 
see.  Indeed,  much  of  this  mechanical  occupation 
with  the  clairvoyans  (we  are  in  want  of  some  such 
compendious  phrase  in  our  language)  appears  to 
be  the  result  rather  of  habit  than  any  exercise  of 
the  eye.  The  blind  print  all  the  books  for  their 
own  use.  They  are  taught  also  to  spin,  to  knit,  in 
which  last  operation  they  are  extremely  ready, 
knitting  very  finely,  with  open  work,  etc.,  and  are 
much  employed  by  the  Parisian  hosiers  in  the  man- 
ufacture of  elastic  vests,  shirts,  and  petticoats. 
They  make  purses,  delicately  embroidered  with 
figures  of  animals  and  flowers,  whose  various  tints 
are  selected  with  perfect  propriety.  The  fingers 
of  the  females  are  observed  to  be  particularly 
adapted  to  this  nicer  sort  of  work,  from  their  supe- 
rior delicacy,  ordinarily,  to  those  of  men.  They 
are  emploj^ed  also  in  manufacturing  girths,  in  net- 
ting in  all  its  branches,  in  making  shoes  of  list, 
plush,  cloth,  colored  skin,  and  list  carpets,  of  which 
a  vast  number  is  annually  disposed  of.  Weaving 
is  particularly  adapted  to  the  blind,  who  perform 
all  the  requisite  manipulation  without  any  other 
assistance  but  that  of  setting  up  the  warp.  They 
manufacture  whips,  straw  bottoms  for  chairs, 
coarse  straw  hats,  rope,  cord,  pack-thread,  baskets, 
straw,  rush,  and  plush  mats,  which  are  very  salable 
in  France. 

The  articles  manufactured  in  the  Asylum  for 
the  Blind  in  Scotland  are  somewhat  different; 
and,  as  they  show  for  what  an  extensive  variety  of 
occupations  they  may  be  qualified  in  despite  of 
their  infirmity,  we  will  take  the  liberty,  at  the 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  81 

hazard  of  being  somewhat  tedious,  of  quoting  the 
catalogue  of  them  exhibited  in  one  of  their  adver- 
tisements. The  articles  offered  for  sale  consist  of 
cotton  and  Hnen  cloths,  ticked  and  striped  Hol- 
lands, towelling  and  diapers,  worsted  net  for 
fruit -trees;  hair-cloth,  hair-mats,  and  hair-ropes; 
basket-work  of  every  description;  hair,  India 
hemp,  and  straw  door-mats ;  saddle-girths ;  ropes 
and  twines  of  all  kinds;  netting  for  sheep-pens; 
garden  and  onion  twine-nets;  fishing-nets,  bee- 
hives, mattresses,  and  cushions;  feather-beds,  bol- 
sters, and  pillows;  mattresses  and  beds  of  every 
description  cleaned  and  repaired.  The  labors  in 
this  department  are  performed  by  the  boys.  The 
girls  are  employed  in  sewing,  knitting  stockings, 
spinning,  making  fine  banker's  twine,  and  various 
works  besides,  usually  executed  by  well-educated 
females. 

Such  is  the  emulation  of  the  blind,  according  to 
Dr.  Guillie,  in  the  institution  of  Paris,  that  hith- 
erto there  has  been  no  necessity  of  stimulating 
their  exertions  by  the  usual  motives  of  reward  or 
punishment.  Delighted  with  their  sensible  prog- 
ress in  vanquishing  the  difficulties  incident  to  their 
condition,  they  are  content  if  they  can  but  place 
themselves  on  a  level  with  the  more  fortunate  of 
their  fellow-creatures.  And  it  is  observed  that 
many,  w^ho  in  the  solitude  of  their  own  homes  have 
failed  in  their  attempts  to  learn  some  of  the  arts 
taught  in  this  institution,  have  acquired  a  knowl- 
edge of  them  with  great  alacrity  when  cheered  by 
the  sympathy  of  individuals  involved  in  the  same 
calamity   with   themselves,   and   with   whom,   of 

Vol.  I.— 6 


82  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

course,  they  could  compete  with  equal  probability 
of  success. 

The  example  of  Paris  has  been  followed  in  the 
principal  cities  in  most  of  the  other  countries  of 
Europe:  in  England,  Scotland,  Russia,  Prussia, 
Austria,  Switzerland,  Holland,  and  Denmark. 
These  establishments,  which  are  conducted  on  the 
same  general  principles,  have  adopted  a  plan  of 
education  more  or  less  comprehensive,  some  of 
them,  like  those  of  Paris  and  Edinburgh,  in- 
volving the  higher  branches  of  intellectual  educa- 
tion, and  others,  as  in  London  and  Liverpool,  con- 
fining themselves  chiefly  to  practical  arts.  The 
results,  however,  have  been  in  the  highest  degree 
cheering  to  the  philanthropist  in  the  light  thus 
poured  in  upon  minds  to  which  all  the  usual  ave- 
nues were  sealed  up, — in  the  opportunity  afforded 
them  of  developing  those  latent  powers  which  had 
been  hitherto  wasted  in  inaction,  and  in  the  happi- 
ness thus  imparted  to  an  unfortunate  class  of 
beings,  who  now  for  the  first  time  were  permitted 
to  assume  their  proper  station  in  society,  and,  in- 
stead of  encumbering,  to  contribute  by  their  own 
exertions  to  the  general  prosperity. 

We  rejoice  that  the  inhabitants  of  our  own  city 
have  been  the  first  to  give  an  example  of  such 
beneficent  institutions  in  the  New  World.  And 
it  is  principally  with  the  view  of  directing  the  at- 
tention of  the  public  towards  it  that  we  have  gone 
into  a  review  of  what  has  been  effected  in  this  way 
in  Europe.  The  credit  of  having  first  suggested 
the  undertaking  here  is  due  to  our  townsman.  Dr. 
John  D.  Fisher,  through  whose  exertions,  aided 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  83 

by  those  of  several  other  benevolent  individuals, 
the  subject  was  brought  before  the  Legislature  of 
this  State,  and  an  act  of  incorporation  was  granted 
to  the  petitioners,  bearing  date  March  2d,  1829, 
authorizing  them,  under  the  title  of  the  "  New 
England  Asylum  for  the  Blind,"  to  hold  property, 
receive  donations  and  bequests,  and  to  exercise  the 
other  functions  usually  appertaining  to  similar 
corporations. 

A  resolution  was  subsequently  passed,  during 
the  same  session,  requiring  the  selectmen  of  the 
several  towns  throughout  the  commonwealth  to 
make  returns  of  the  number  of  blind  inhabitants, 
with  their  ages,  periods  of  blindness,  personal  con- 
dition, etc.  By  far  the  larger  proportion  of  these 
functionaries,  however,  with  a  degree  of  apathy 
which  does  them  very  little  credit,  paid  no  atten- 
tion whatever  to  this  requisition.  By  the  aid  of 
such  as  did  comply  with  it,  and  by  means  of  cir- 
culars addressed  to  the  clergymen  of  the  various 
parishes,  advices  have  been  received  from  one  hun- 
dred and  forty-one  towns,  comprising  somewhat 
less  than  half  of  the  whole  number  within  the 
State.  From  this  imperfect  estimate  it  would 
appear  that  the  number  of  blind  persons  in 
these  towns  amounts  to  two  hundred  and  forty- 
three,  of  whom  more  than  one-fifth  are  under 
thirty  years  of  age,  which  period  is  assigned  as 
the  limit  within  which  they  cannot  fail  of  receiving 
all  the  benefit  to  be  derived  from  the  system  of 
instruction  pursued  in  the  institutions  for  the 
bhnd. 

The  proportion  of  the  blind  to  our  whole  popu- 


84.  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

lation,  as  founded  on  the  above  estimate,  is  some- 
what higher  than  that  established  by  Zeune  for  the 
corresponding  latitudes  in  Europe,  where  blind- 
ness decreases  in  advancing  from  the  equator  to 
the  poles,  it  being  computed  in  Egypt  at  the 
rate  of  one  to  one  hundred,  and  in  Norway  of 
one  to  one  thousand,  which  last  is  conformable 
to  ours. 

Assuming  the  preceding  estimate  as  the  basis,  it 
will  appear  that  there  are  about  five  hundred  blind 
persons  in  the  State  of  Massachusetts  at  the  pres- 
ent moment;  and,  adopting  the  census  of  1820, 
there  could  not  at  that  time,  according  to  the 
same  rate,  be  less  than  sixteen  hundred  and  fifty 
in  all  New  England,  one-fifth  being  under  thirty 
years  of  age;  a  number  M^hich,  as  the  blind  are 
usually  retired  from  public  observation,  far  ex- 
ceeds what  might  be  conceived  on  a  cursorj^ 
inspection. 

From  the  returns  it  would  appear  that  a  large 
proportion  of  the  blind  in  Massachusetts  are  in 
humble  circumstances,  and  a  still  larger  propor- 
tion of  those  in  years  indigent  or  paupers.  This 
is  imputable  to  their  having  learned  no  trade  or 
profession  in  their  youth,  so  that,  when  deprived 
of  their  natural  guardians,  they  have  necessarily 
become  a  charge  upon  the  public. 

Since  the  year  1825  an  appropriation  has  been 
continued  by  the  Legislature  for  the  purpose  of 
maintaining  a  certain  number  of  pupils  at  the 
Asylum  for  the  Deaf  and  Dumb  at  Hartford.  A 
resolution  was  obtained  during  the  last  session  of 
the  General  Court  authorizing  the  governor  to 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  85 

pay  over  to  the  Asylum  for  the  Blind  whatever 
balance  of  the  sum  thus  appropriated  might  re- 
main in  the  treasury  unexpended  at  the  end  of  the 
current  year,  and  the  same  with  every  subsequent 
year  to  which  the  grant  extended,  unless  otherwise 
advised.  Seven  hundred  dollars  only  have  been 
received  as  the  balance  of  the  past  year,  a  sum 
obviously  inadequate  to  the  production  of  any  im- 
portant result,  and  far  inferior  to  what  had  been 
anticipated  by  the  friends  of  the  measure.  On  the 
whole,  we  are  inclined  to  doubt  whether  this  will 
be  found  the  most  suitable  mode  of  creating  re- 
sources for  the  asylum.  Although,  in  fact,  it  dis- 
poses only  of  the  superfluity,  it  has  the  appearance 
of  subtracting  from  the  positive  revenues  of  the 
Deaf  and  Dumb,  an  institution  of  equal  merit  and 
claims  with  any  other  whatever.  The  Asylum  for 
the  Blind  is  an  establishment  of  too  much  impor- 
tance to  be  left  thus  dependent  on  a  precarious 
contingent,  and  is  worthy,  were  it  only  in  an  eco- 
nomical point  of  view,  of  being  placed  by  the  State 
on  some  more  secure  and  ample  basis. 

As  it  is,  the  want  of  funds  opposes  a  sensible 
obstruction  to  its  progress.  The  pressure  of  the 
times  has  made  the  present  moment  exceedingly 
unfavorable  to  personal  solicitation,  although  so 
much  has  been  effected  in  this  way,  through  the 
hberality  of  a  few  individuals,  that,  as  we  under- 
stand, preparations  are  now  making  for  procuring 
the  requisite  instructors  and  apparatus  on  a  mod- 
erate and  somewhat  reduced  scale. 

As  to  the  comprehensiveness  of  the  scheme  of 
education  to  be  pursued  at  the  asylum,  whether  it 


86  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

shall  embrace  intellectual  culture  or  be  confined 
simply  to  the  mechanic  arts,  this  must,  of  course, 
be  ultimately  determined  by  the  extent  of  its  re- 
sources. We  trust,  however,  it  will  be  enabled  to 
adopt  the  former  arrangement,  at  least  so  far  as 
to  afford  the  pupils  an  acquaintance  with  the  ele- 
ments of  the  more  popular  sciences.  There  is  such 
a  diffusion  of  liberal  knowledge  among  all  classes 
in  this  country,  that  if  the  blind  are  suffered  to 
go  without  any  tincture  of  it  from  the  institution, 
they  will  always,  whatever  be  the  skill  acquired  by 
them  in  mechanical  occupations,  continue  to  feel  a 
sense  of  their  own  mental  inferiority.  The  con- 
nection of  these  higher  with  the  more  direct  objects 
of  the  institution  will  serve,  moreover,  to  give  it 
greater  dignity  and  importance.  And  while  it  will 
open  sources  of  knowledge  from  which  many  may 
be  in  a  situation  to  derive  permanent  consolation, 
it  will  instruct  the  humblest  individual  in  what  may 
be  of  essential  utility  to  him,  as  writing  and  arith- 
metic, for  example,  in  his  intercourse  with  the 
world. 

To  what  extent  it  is  desirable  that  the  asylum 
be  placed  on  a  charitable  foundation  is  another 
subject  of  consideration.  This,  we  believe,  is  the 
character  of  most  of  the  establishments  in  Europe. 
That  in  Scotland,  for  instance,  contains  about  a 
hundred  subjects,  who,  with  their  families  in- 
cluded, amount  to  two  hundred  and  fifty  souls,  all 
supported  from  the  labors  of  the  blind,  conjointly 
with  the  funds  of  the  institution.  This  is  undoubt- 
edly one  of  the  noblest  and  most  discriminating 
charities  in  the  world.    It  seems  probable,  however. 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  87 

that  this  is  not  the  plan  best  adapted  to  our  exi- 
gencies. We  want  not  to  maintain  the  blind,  but 
to  put  them  in  the  way  of  contributing  to  their 
own  maintenance.  By  placing  the  expenses  of 
tuition  and  board  as  low  as  possible,  the  means  of 
effecting  this  will  be  brought  within  the  reach  of 
a  large  class  of  them;  and  for  the  rest,  it  will  be 
obvious  economy  in  the  State  to  provide  them  with 
the  means  of  acquiring  an  education  at  once  that 
may  enable  them  to  contribute  permanently 
towards  their  own  support,  which,  in  some  shape 
or  other,  is  now  chargeable  on  the  public.  Per- 
haps, however,  some  scheme  may  be  devised 
for  combining  both  these  objects,  if  this  be 
deemed  preferable  to  the  adoption  of  either 
exclusively. 

We  are  convinced  that,  as  far  as  the  institution 
is  to  rely  for  its  success  on  public  patronage,  it 
will  not  be  disappointed.  If  once  successfully  in 
operation  and  brought  before  the  public  eye,  it 
cannot  fail  of  exciting  a  very  general  sympathy, 
which,  in  this  country,  has  never  been  refused  to 
the  calls  of  humanity.  No  one,  we  think,  who  has 
visited  the  similar  endovnnents  in  Paris  or  in  Edin- 
burgh will  easily  forget  the  sensations  which  he 
experienced  on  witnessing  so  large  a  class  of  his 
unfortunate  fellow-creatures  thus  restored  from 
intellectual  darkness  to  the  blessings,  if  we  may  so 
speak,  of  light  and  liberty.  There  is  no  higher 
evidence  of  the  worth  of  the  human  mind  than  its 
capacity  of  drawing  consolation  from  its  own  re- 
sources under  so  heavy  a  privation;  so  that  it  not 
only  can  exhibit  resignation  and  cheerfulness,  but 


88  CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES 

energy  to  burst  the  fetters  with  which  it  is  encum- 
bered. 

Who  could  refuse  his  sympathy  to  the  suc- 
cess of  these  efforts,  or  withhold  from  the  sub- 
ject of  them  the  means  of  attaining  his  natural 
level  and  usefulness  in  society,  from  which  circum- 
stances less  favorable  to  him  than  to  ourselves 
have  hitherto  excluded  him? 


IRVING'S  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA* 

(October,    1829) 

ALMOST  as  many  qualifications  may  be  de- 
manded for  a  perfect  historian,  indeed,  the 
Abbe  Mably  has  enumerated  as  many,  as  Cicero 
stipulates  for  a  perfect  orator.  He  must  be 
strictly  impartial;  a  lover  of  truth  under  all  cir- 
cumstances, and  ready  to  declare  it  at  all  hazards : 
he  must  be  deeply  conversant  with  whatever  may 
bring  into  relief  the  character  of  the  people  he  is 
depicting,  not  merely  with  their  laws,  constitution, 
general  resources,  and  all  the  other  more  visible 
parts  of  the  machinery  of  government,  but  with 
the  nicer  moral  and  social  relations,  the  informing 
spirit  which  gives  life  to  the  whole,  but  escapes  the 
eye  of  a  vulgar  observer.  If  he  has  to  do  with 
other  ages  and  nations,  he  must  transport  himself 
into  them,  expatriating  himself,  as  it  were,  from 
his  own,  in  order  to  get  the  very  form  and  pressure 
of  the  times  he  is  delineating.  He  must  be  con- 
scientious in  his  attention  to  geography,  chronol- 
ogy, etc.,  an  inaccuracy  in  which  has  been  fatal  to 
more  than  one  good  philosophical  history;  and, 
mixed  up  with  all  these  drier  details,  he  must  dis- 
play the  various  powers  of  a  novehst  or  dramatist, 
throwing  his  characters  into  suitable  lights  and 
shades,  disposing  his  scenes  so  as  to  awaken  and 

•  "  A  Chronicle  of  the  Conquest  of  Granada.     By  Fray  Antonio 
Agapida."    1829:   2  vols.  12mo.    Philadelphia:   Carey,  Lea  &  Carey. 

89 


90  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

maintain  an  unflagging  interest,  and  diffusing 
over  the  whole  that  finished  style  without  which  his 
work  will  only  become  a  magazine  of  materials 
for  the  more  elegant  edifices  of  subsequent  writers. 
He  must  be — in  short,  there  is  no  end  to  what  a 
perfect  historian  must  be  and  do.  It  is  hardly 
necessary  to  add  that  such  a  monster  never  did  and 
never  will  exist. 

But,  although  we  cannot  attain  to  perfect  ex- 
cellence in  this  or  any  other  science  in  this  world, 
considerable  approaches  have  been  made  to  it,  and 
different  individuals  have  arisen  at  different 
periods,  possessed  in  an  eminent  degree  of  some 
of  the  principal  qualities  which  go  to  make  up  the 
aggregate  of  the  character  we  have  been  de- 
scribing. The  peculiar  character  of  these  qualities 
will  generally  be  determined  in  the  writer  by  that 
of  the  age  in  which  he  lives.  Thus,  the  earlier  his- 
torians of  Greece  and  Rome  sought  less  to  in- 
struct than  to  amuse.  They  filled  their  pictures 
with  dazzling  and  seductive  images.  In  their  re- 
searches into  antiquity,  they  were  not  startled  by 
the  marvellous,  like  the  more  prudish  critics  of  our 
day,  but  welcomed  it  as  likely  to  stir  the  imagina- 
tions of  their  readers.  They  seldom  interrupted 
the  ctory  by  impertinent  reflection.  They  be- 
stowed infinite  pains  on  the  costume,  the  style  of 
their  history,  and,  in  fine,  made  everything  subor- 
dinate to  the  main  purpose  of  conveying  an  ele- 
gant and  interesting  narrative.  Such  was  He- 
rodotus, such  Livy,  and  such,  too,  the  earlier 
chroniclers  of  modern  Europe,  whose  pages  glow 
with  the  picturesque  and  brilliant  pageants  of  an 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  91 

age  of  chivalry.  These  last,  as  well  as  Herodotus, 
may  be  said  to  have  written  in  the  infancy  of  their 
nations,  when  the  imagination  is  more  willingly 
addressed  than  the  understanding.  Livy,  who 
wrote  in  a  riper  age,  lived,  nevertheless,  in  a  court 
and  a  period  where  tranquillity  and  opulence 
disposed  the  minds  of  men  to  elegant  recreation 
rather  than  to  severe  disciphne  and  exertion. 

As,  however,  the  nation  advanced  in  years,  or 
became  oppressed  with  calamity,  history  also  as- 
sumed a  graver  complexion.  Fancy  gave  way 
to  reflection.  The  mind,  no  longer  invited  to  rove 
abroad  in  quest  of  elegant  and  alluring  pictures, 
was  driven  back  upon  itself,  speculated  more 
deeply,  and  sought  for  support  under  the  external 
evils  of  life  in  moral  and  philosophical  truth.  De- 
scription was  abandoned  for  the  study  of  char- 
acter; men  took  the  place  of  events;  and  the 
romance  was  converted  into  the  drama.  Thus  it 
was  with  Tacitus,  who  lived  under  those  imperial 
monsters  who  turned  Rome  into  a  charnel-house, 
and  his  compact  narratives  are  filled  with  moral 
and  political  axioms  sufficiently  numerous  to  make 
a  volume;  and,  indeed,  Brotier  has  made  one  of 
them  in  his  edition  of  the  historian.  The  same 
philosophical  spirit  animates  the  page  of  Thucyd- 
ides,  himself  one  of  the  principal  actors  in  the 
long,  disastrous  struggle  that  terminated  in  the 
ruin  of  his  nation. 

But,  notwithstanding  the  deeper  and  more  com- 
prehensive thought  of  these  later  writers,  there 
was  still  a  wide  difl*erence  between  the  complexion 
given  to  history  under  their  hands  and  that  which 


92  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

it  has  assumed  in  our  time.  We  would  not  be 
understood  as  determining,  but  simply  as  discrimi- 
nating, their  relative  merits.  The  Greeks  and 
Romans  lived  when  the  world,  at  least  when  the 
mind,  was  in  its  comparative  infancy, — when 
fancy  and  feeling  were  most  easily  and  loved  most 
to  be  excited.  They  possessed  a  finer  sense  of 
beauty  than  the  moderns.  They  were  infinitely 
more  solicitous  about  the  external  dress,  the  finish, 
and  all  that  makes  up  the  poetry  of  a  composition. 
Poetry,  indeed,  mingled  in  their  daily  pursuits  as 
well  as  pleasures;  it  determined  their  gravest  de- 
liberations. The  command  of  their  armies  was 
given,  not  to  the  best  general,  but  ofttimes  to  the 
most  eloquent  orator.  Poetry  entered  into  their 
religion,  and  created  those  beautiful  monuments 
of  architecture  and  sculpture  which  the  breath  of 
time  has  not  tarnished.  It  entered  into  their 
philosophy;  and  no  one  confessed  its  influence 
more  deeply  than  he  who  would  have  banished  it 
from  his  republic.  It  informed  the  souls  of  their 
orators,  and  prompted  those  magnificent  rhapso- 
dies which  fall  Hf eless  enough  from  the  stammer- 
ing tongue  of  the  school-boy,  but  which  once 
awaked  to  ecstasy  the  living  populace  of  Athens. 
It  entered  deeply  even  into  their  latest  history.  It 
was  first  exhibited  in  the  national  chronicles  of 
Homer.  It  lost  little  of  its  coloring,  though  it 
conformed  to  the  general  laws  of  prosaic  compo- 
sition, under  Herodotus.  And  it  shed  a  pleasing 
grace  over  the  sober  pages  of  Thucydides  and 
Xenophon.  The  muse,  indeed,  was  stripped  of 
her  wings ;  she  no  longer  made  her  airy  excursions 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  93 

into  the  fairy  regions  of  romance;  but,  as  she 
moved  along  the  earth,  the  sweetest  wild  flowers 
seemed  to  spring  up  unbidden  at  her  feet.  We 
would  not  be  understood  as  implying  that  Grecian 
history  was  ambitious  of  florid  or  meretricious 
ornament.  Nothing  could  be  more  simple  than 
its  general  plan  and  execution ;  far  too  simple,  we 
fear,  for  imitation  iu  our  day.  Thus  Thucydides, 
for  example,  distributes  his  events  most  inartifi- 
cially,  according  to  the  regular  revolutions  of  the 
seasons;  and  the  rear  of  every  section  is  brought 
up  with  the  same  eternal  repetition  of  irog  rcS  no- 
?.Efi(d  sTEXEvra  riSSe,  ov  QovxvSiSYig  ^vveypa^^e.  But  in 
the  fictitious  speeches  with  which  he  has  illu- 
mined his  narrative  he  has  left  the  choicest  speci- 
mens of  Attic  eloquence;  and  he  elaborated  his 
general  diction  into  so  high  a  finish  that  Demos- 
thenes, as  is  weU  known,  in  the  hope  of  catching 
some  of  his  rhetorical  graces,  thought  him  worthy 
of  being  thrice  transcribed  with  his  own  hand. 

Far  difl'erent  has  been  the  general  conception, 
as  well  as  execution,  of  history  by  the  moderns. 
In  this,  however,  it  was  accommodated  to  the  exi- 
gencies of  their  situation,  and,  as  with  the  ancients, 
still  reflected  the  spirit  of  the  age.  If  the  Greeks 
lived  in  the  infancy  of  civilization,  the  contempo- 
raries of  our  day  may  be  said  to  have  reached  its 
prime.  The  same  revolution  has  taken  place  as 
in  the  growth  of  an  individual.  The  vivacity  of 
the  imagination  has  been  blunted,  but  reason  is 
matured.  The  credulity  of  youth  has  given  way 
to  habits  of  cautious  inquiry,  and  sometimes  to  a 
phlegmatic  scepticism.     The  productions,  indeed. 


94  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

which  first  appeared  in  the  doubtful  twilight  of 
morning  exhibited  the  love  of  the  marvellous,  the 
light  and  fanciful  spirit  of  a  green  and  tender  age. 
But  a  new  order  of  things  commenced  as  the  stores 
of  classical  learning  were  unrolled  to  the  eye  of  the 
scholar.  The  mind  seemed  at  once  to  enter  upon 
the  rich  inheritance  which  the  sages  of  antiquity 
had  been  ages  in  accumulating,  and  to  start,  as  it 
were,  from  the  very  point  where  they  had  termi- 
nated their  career.  Thus  raised  by  learning  and 
experience,  it  was  enabled  to  take  a  wider  view 
of  its  proper  destiny, — to  understand  that  truth  is 
the  greatest  good,  and  to  discern  the  surest  method 
of  arriving  at  it.  The  Christian  doctrine,  too,  in- 
culcated that  the  end  of  being  was  best  answered 
by  a  life  of  active  usefulness,  and  not  by  one  of 
abstract  contemplation,  or  selfish  indulgence,  or 
passive  fortitude,  as  variously  taught  by  the 
various  sects  of  antiquity.  Hence  a  new  standard 
of  moral  excellence  was  formed.  Pursuits  were 
estimated  by  their  practical  results,  and  the  useful 
was  preferred  to  the  ornamental.  Poetry,  con- 
fined to  her  own  sphere,  was  no  longer  permitted 
to  mingle  in  the  councils  of  philosophy.  Intel- 
lectual and  physical  science,  instead  of  floating  on 
vague  speculation,  as  with  the  ancients,  was  estab- 
lished on  careful  induction  and  experiment.  The 
orator,  instead  of  adorning  himself  with  the  pomp 
and  garniture  of  verse,  sought  only  to  acquire 
greater  dexterity  in  the  management  of  the  true 
weapons  of  debate.  The  passions  were  less  fre- 
quently assailed,  the  reason  more.  A  wider  field 
was  open  to  the  historian.    He  was  no  longer  to 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  95 

concoct  his  narrative,  if  the  scene  lay  in  a  remote 
period,  from  the  superficial  rumors  of  oral  tradi- 
tion. Libraries  were  to  be  ransacked;  medals 
and  monuments  to  be  studied;  obsolete  manu- 
scripts to  be  deciphered.  Every  assertion  was  to 
be  fortified  by  an  authority;  and  the  opinions  of 
others,  instead  of  being  admitted  on  easy  faith, 
were  to  be  carefully  collated,  and  the  balance  of 
probability  struck  between  them.  With  these 
qualifications  of  antiquarian  and  critic,  the  modern 
historian  was  to  combine  that  of  the  philosopher, 
deducing  from  his  mass  of  facts  general  theorems, 
and  giving  to  them  their  most  extended  appli- 
cation. 

By  all  this  process,  poetry  lost  much,  but  philos- 
ophy gained  more.  The  elegant  arts  sensibly 
declined,  but  the  most  important  and  recondite 
secrets  of  nature  were  laid  open.  All  those 
sciences  which  have  for  their  object  the  happiness 
and  improvement  of  the  species,  the  science  of  gov- 
ernment, of  political  economy,  of  education — 
natural  and  experimental  science — ^were  carried 
far  beyond  the  boundaries  which  they  could  pos- 
sibly have  reached  under  the  ancient  systems. 

The  peculiar  forms  of  historic  writing,  as  it 
exists  with  the  moderns,  were  not  fully  developed 
until  the  last  century.  It  may  be  well  to  notice 
the  intermediate  shape  which  it  assumed  before  it 
reached  this  period  in  Spain  and  Italy,  but  espe- 
cially this  latter  country,  in  the  sixteenth  century. 
The  Italian  historians  of  that  age  seem  to  have 
combined  the  generalizing  and  reflecting  spirit 
characteristic  of  the  moderns,  with  the  simple  and 


96  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

graceful  forms  of  composition  which  have  de- 
scended to  us  from  the  ancients.  Machiavelli,  in 
particular,  may  remind  us  of  some  recent  statue 
which  exhibits  all  the  lineaments  and  proportions 
of  a  contemporary,  but  to  which  the  sculptor  has 
given  a  sort  of  antique  dignity  by  enveloping  it  in 
the  folds  of  the  Roman  toga.  No  one  of  the 
Spanish  historians  is  to  be  named  with  him. 
Mariana,  who  enjoys  among  them  the  greatest 
celebrity,  has,  it  is  true,  given  to  his  style,  both  in 
the  Latin  and  CastiUan,  the  elegant  transparency 
of  an  ancient  classic ;  but  the  mass  of  detail  is  not 
quickened  by  a  single  spark  of  philosophy  or  origi- 
nal reflection.  Mariana  was  a  monk,  one  of  a 
community  who  have  formed  the  most  copious  but 
in  many  respects  the  most  incompetent  chroniclers 
in  the  world,  cut  off  as  they  are  from  all  sjrmpathy 
with  any  portion  of  the  species  save  their  own 
order,  and  predisposed  by  education  to  admit  as 
truth  the  grossest  forgeries  of  fanaticism.  What 
can  their  narratives  be  worth,  distorted  thus  by 
prejudice  and  credulity?  The  Aragonese  writers, 
and  Zurita  in  particular,  though  far  inferior  as  to 
the  literary  execution  of  their  works,  exhibit  a 
pregnant  thought  and  a  manly  independence  of 
expression  far  superior  to  the  Jesuit  Mariana.* 

*  The  Jesuits  were  neither  monks  nor  friars  but  formed  one  of 
the  orders  of  the  regular  clergy,  priests  living  in  common  and 
occupied  with  the  various  works  of  the  ministry.  Mariana  there- 
fore was  not  a  monk.  He  was  Professor  of  Theology  in  the 
Jesuit  College  at  Rome,  1561-65, — was  therefore  a  Secretary  on 
Divinity  in  Sicily  and  in  Paris,  and  in  1574  settled  at  Toledo, 
where  he  devoted  himself  to  the  composition  of  his  famous  history. 
He  died  in  1623.— M. 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  97 

The  Italian  historians  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
moreover,  had  the  good  fortune  not  only  to  have 
been  eye-witnesses  but  to  have  played  prominent 
parts  in  the  events  which  they  commemorated. 
And  this  gives  a  vitality  to  their  touches  which  is 
in  vain  to  be  expected  from  those  of  a  closet  poh- 
tician.  This  rare  union  of  public  and  private  ex- 
cellence is  delicately  intimated  in  the  inscription 
on  Guicciardini's  monument,  "  Cujus  negotium^ 
an  otium,  gloriosius  incertumJ" 

The  personage  by  whom  the  present  laws  of  his- 
toric composition  may  be  said  to  have  been  first 
arranged  into  a  regular  system  was  Voltaire.  This 
extraordinary  genius,  whose  works  have  been  pro- 
ductive of  so  much  mingled  good  and  evil,  dis- 
covers in  them  many  traces  of  a  humane  and 
beneficent  disposition.  Nowhere  is  his  invective 
more  keenly  directed  than  against  acts  of  cruelty 
and  oppression, — above  all,  of  religious  oppres- 
sion. He  lived  in  an  age  of  crying  abuses  both  in 
Church  and  government.  Unfortunately,  he  em- 
ployed a  weapon  against  them  whose  influence  is 
not  to  be  controlled  by  the  most  expert  hand.  The 
envenomed  shaft  of  irony  not  only  wounds  the 
member  at  which  it  is  aimed,  but  diffuses  its  poison 
to  the  healthiest  and  remotest  regions  of  the  body. 

The  free  and  volatile  temper  of  Voltaire  forms 
a  singular  contrast  with  his  resolute  pertinacity  of 
purpose.  Bard,  philosopher,  historian,  this  hter- 
ary  Proteus  animated  every  shape  with  the  same 
mischievous  spirit  of  philosophy.  It  never  de- 
serted him,  even  in  the  most  sportive  sallies  of  his 
fancy.     It  seasons  his  romances  equally  with  his 

Vol.  I.— 7 


98  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

gravest  pieces  in  the  encyclopedia;  his  famihar 
letters  and  most  licentious  doggerel  no  less  than 
his  histories.  The  leading  object  of  this  philoso- 
phy may  be  defined  by  the  single  cant  phrase,  "  the 
abolition  of  prejudices."  But  in  Voltaire  preju- 
dices were  too  often  confounded  with  principles. 

In  his  histories,  he  seems  ever  intent  on  exhibit- 
ing, in  the  most  glaring  colors,  the  manifold  incon- 
sistencies of  the  human  race;  in  showing  the 
contradiction  between  profession  and  practice;  in 
contrasting  the  magnificence  of  the  apparatus  with 
the  impotence  of  the  results.  The  enormous 
abuses  of  Christianity  are  brought  into  juxtaposi- 
tiOTi  with  the  most  meritorious  features  in  other 
religions,  and  thus  all  are  reduced  to  nearly  the 
same  level.  The  credulity  of  one  half  of  mankind 
is  set  in  opposition  to  the  cunning  of  the  other. 
The  most  momentous  events  are  traced  to  the  most 
insignificant  causes,  and  the  ripest  schemes  of 
wisdom  are  shown  to  have  been  baffled  by  the  inter- 
vention of  the  most  trivial  accidents.  Thus,  the 
conduct  of  the  world  seems  to  be  regulated  by 
chance ;  the  springs  of  human  action  are  resolved 
into  selfishness ;  and  religion,  of  whatever  denomi- 
nation, is  only  a  different  form  of  superstition.  It 
is  true  that  his  satire  is  directed  not  so  much 
against  any  particular  system  as  the  vices  of  that 
system ;  but  the  result  left  upon  the  mind  is  not  a 
whit  less  pernicious.  His  philosophical  romance 
of  "  Candide  "  affords  a  good  exemplification  of 
his  manner.  The  thesis  of  perfect  optimism  in 
this  world,  at  which  he  levels  this  jeu  d' esprit,  is 
manifestly  indefensible.    But  then  he  supports  his 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  99 

position  with  such  an  array  of  gross  and  hyper- 
boHcal  atrocities,  without  the  intervention  of  a 
single  palHative  circumstance,  and,  withal,  in  such 
a  tone  of  keen  derision,  that  if  any  serious  impres- 
sion be  left  on  the  mind  it  can  be  no  other  than 
that  of  a  baleful,  withering  scepticism.  The  his- 
torian rarely  so  far  forgets  his  philosophy  as  to 
kindle  into  high  and  generous  emotion  the  glow 
of  patriotism,  or  moral  and  religious  enthusiasm. 
And  hence,  too,  his  style,  though  always  graceful, 
and  often  seasoned  with  the  sallies  of  a  piquant 
wit,  never  rises  into  eloquence  or  sublunity. 

Voltaire  has  been  frequently  reproached  for 
want  of  historical  accuracy.  But,  if  we  make  due 
allowance  for  the  sweeping  tenor  of  his  reflections 
and  for  the  infinite  variety  of  his  topics,  we  shall 
be  slow  in  giving  credit  to  this  charge."  *  He  was, 
indeed,  oftentimes  misled  by  his  inveterate  Pyr- 
rhonism; a  defect,  when  carried  to  the  excess  in 
which  he  indulged  it,  almost  equally  fatal  to  the 
historian  with  credulity  or  superstition.  His  re- 
searches frequently  led  him  into  dark,  untravelled 
regions ;  but  the  aliment  which  he  imported  thence 
served  only  too  often  to  minister  to  his  pernicious 
philosophy.  He  resembled  the  allegorical  agents 
of  Milton,  paving  a  way  across  the  gulf  of  Chaos 
for  the  spirits  of  mischief  to  enter  more  easily 
upon  the  earth. 

Voltaire  effected  a  no  less  sensible  revolution  in 
the  structure  than  in  the  spirit  of  history.    Thus, 

*  Indeed,  Hallam  and  Warton — the  one  as  diligent  a  laborer  in 
the  field  of  civil  history  as  the  other  has  been  in  literary — both  bear 
testimony  to  his  general  veracity. 


100  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

instead  of  following  the  natural  consecutive  order 
of  events,  the  work  was  distributed,  on  the  prin- 
ciple of  a  Catalogue  raisonne,  into  sections  ar- 
ranged according  to  their  subjects,  and  copious 
dissertations  were  introduced  into  the  body  of  the 
narrative.  Thus,  in  his  Essai  sur  les  Moeurs,  etc., 
one  chapter  is  devoted  to  letters,  another  to  re- 
ligion, a  third  to  manners,  and  so  on.  And  in  the 
same  way,  in  his  "  Age  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth,'* 
he  has  thrown  his  various  illustrations  of  the  policy 
of  government,  and  of  the  social  habits  of  the 
court,  into  a  detached  portion  at  the  close  of  the 
book. 

This  would  seem  to  be  deviating  from  the  natu- 
ral course  of  things  as  they  occur  in  the  world, 
where  the  multifarious  pursuits  of  pleasure  and 
business,  the  lights  and  shadows,  as  it  were,  of  life, 
are  daily  intermingled  in  the  motley  panorama  of 
human  existence.  But,  however  artificial  this  divi- 
sion, it  enabled  the  reader  to  arrive  more  expe- 
ditiously at  the  results,  for  which  alone  history  is 
valuable,  while  at  the  same  time  it  put  it  in  the 
power  of  the  writer  to  convey  with  more  certainty 
and  facility  his  own  impressions. 

This  system  was  subsequently  so  much  refined 
upon  that  Montesquieu,  in  his  "  Grandeur  et  De- 
cadence des  Romains,"  laid  no  farther  stress  on 
historical  facts  than  as  they  furnished  him  with 
illustrations  of  his  particular  theorems.  Indeed, 
so  little  did  his  work  rest  upon  the  veracity  of  such 
facts  that,  although  the  industry  of  Niebuhr,  or, 
rather,  of  Beaufort,  has  knocked  away  almost  all 
the   foundations  of  early  Rome,   Montesquieu's 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  101 

treatise  remains  as  essentially  unimpaired  in  credit 
as  before.  Thus  the  materials  which  anciently 
formed  the  body  of  history  now  served  only  as  in- 
gredients from  which  its  spirit  was  to  be  extracted. 
But  this  was  not  always  the  spirit  of  truth.  And 
the  arbitrary  selection  as  well  as  disposition  of  inci- 
dents which  this  new  method  allowed,  and  the 
coloring  which  they  were  to  receive  from  the 
author,  made  it  easy  to  pervert  them  to  the  con- 
struction of  the  wildest  hypotheses. 

The  progress  of  philosophical  history  is  par- 
ticularly observable  in  Great  Britain,  where  it 
seems  to  have  been  admirably  suited  to  the  grave, 
reflecting  temper  of  the  people.  In  the  graces  of 
narrative  they  have  ever  been  unequal  to  their 
French  neighbors.  Their  ancient  chronicles  are 
inferior  in  spirit  and  execution  to  those  either  of 
France  or  Spain;  and  their  more  elaborate  his- 
tories, down  to  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, could  not  in  any  way  compete  with  the  illus- 
trious models  of  Italy.  But  soon  after  this  period 
several  writers  appeared,  exhibiting  a  combination 
of  qualities,  erudition,  critical  penetration,  powers 
of  generalization,  and  a  political  sagacity  unri- 
valled in  any  other  age  or  country. 

The  influence  of  the  new  forms  of  historical 
composition,  however,  was  here,  as  elsewhere,  made 
too  frequently  subservient  to  party  and  sectarian 
prejudices.  Tory  histories  and  Whig  histories, 
Protestant  and  Catholic  histories,  successively  ap- 
peared, and  seemed  to  neutralize  each  other.  The 
most  venerable  traditions  were  exploded  as  nursery- 
tales.    The  statues  decreed  by  antiquity  were  cast 


102  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

down,  and  the  characters  of  miscreants  whom 
the  general  suffrage  of  mankind  had  danmed  to 
infamy — of  a  Dionysius,  a  Borgia,  or  a  Richard 
the  Third — were  now  retraced  by  what  Jovius  dis- 
tinguishes as  "  the  golden  pen  "  of  the  historian, 
until  the  reader,  bewildered  in  the  maze  of  uncer- 
tainty, is  almost  ready  to  join  in  the  exclamation 
of  Lord  Orford  to  his  son,  "  Oh,  quote  me  not 
history,  for  that  I  know  to  be  false!"  It  is  re- 
markable, indeed,  that  the  last-mentioned  monarch, 
Richard  the  Third,  whose  name  has  become  a  by- 
word of  atrocit}'-,  the  burden  of  the  ballad  and  the 
moral  of  the  drama,  should  have  been  the  subject 
of  elaborate  vindication  by  two  eminent  writers  of 
the  most  opposite  characters,  the  pragmatical 
Horace  Walpole  and  the  circumspect  and  con- 
scientious Sharon  Turner.  The  apology  of  the 
latter  exhibits  a  technical  precision,  a  severe  scru- 
tiny into  the  authenticity  of  records,  and  a  nice 
balancing  of  contradictory  testimony,  that  give  it 
all  the  air  of  a  legal  investigation.  Thus  history 
seems  to  be  conducted  on  the  principles  of  a  judi- 
cial process,  in  which  the  writer,  assuming  the 
functions  of  an  advocate,  studiously  suppresses 
whatever  may  make  against  his  own  side,  supports 
himself  by  the  strongest  array  of  evidence  which 
he  can  muster,  discredits  as  far  as  possible  that  of 
the  opposite  party,  and,  by  dexterous  interpreta- 
tion and  ingenious  inference,  makes  out  the  most 
plausible  argument  for  his  client  that  the  case  will 
admit. 

But  these,  after  all,  are  only  the  abuses  of  philo- 
sophical history,  and  the  unseasonable  length  of 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  103 

remark  into  which  we  have  been  unwarily  led  in 
respect  to  them  may  give  us  the  appearance  of  lay- 
ing on  them  greater  emphasis  than  they  actually 
deserve.  There  are  few  writers  in  any  country 
whose  judgment  has  not  been  sometimes  warped 
by  personal  prejudices.  But  it  is  to  the  credit  of 
the  principal  British  historians  that,  however  they 
may  have  been  occasionally  under  the  influence  of 
such  human  infirmity,  they  have  conducted  their 
researches,  in  the  main,  with  equal  integrity  and 
impartiality.  And  while  they  have  enriched  their 
writings  with  the  stores  of  a  various  erudition, 
they  have  digested  from  these  details  results  of 
the  most  enlarged  and  practical  application.  His- 
tory in  their  hands,  although  it  may  have  lost  much 
of  the  simplicity  and  graphic  vivacity  which  it 
maintained  with  the  ancients,  has  gained  much 
more  in  the  amount  of  useful  knowledge  and  the 
lessons  of  sound  philosophy  which  it  inculcates. 

There  is  no  writer  who  exhibits  more  distinctly 
the  full  development  of  the  principles  of  modern 
history,  with  all  its  virtues  and  defects,  than  Gib- 
bon. His  learning  was  fully  equal  to  his  vast  sub- 
ject. This,  commencing  with  expiring  civilization 
in  ancient  Rome,  continues  on  until  the  period  of 
its  final  and  perfect  resurrection  in  Italy  in  the 
fifteenth  century,  and  thus  may  be  said  to  furnish 
the  lights  which  are  to  guide  us  through  the  long 
interval  of  darkness  which  divides  the  Old  from 
the  Modern  world.  The  range  of  his  subject  was 
fully  equal  to  its  duration.  Goths,  Huns,  Tartars, 
and  all  the  rude  tribes  of  the  North  are  brought 
upon  the  stage,  together  with  the  more  cultivated 


104  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

natives  of  the  South,  the  Greeks,  ItaHans,  and  the 
intellectual  Arab;  and,  as  the  scene  shifts  from 
one  country  to  another,  we  behold  its  population 
depicted  with  that  peculiarity  of  physiognomy  and 
studied  propriety  of  costume  which  belong  to  dra- 
matic exhibition ;  for  Gibbon  was  a  more  vivacious 
draughtsman  than  most  writers  of  his  school.  He 
was,  moreover,  deeply  versed  in  geography,  chro- 
nology, antiquities,  verbal  criticism, — in  short,  in 
all  the  sciences  in  any  way  subsidiary  to  his  art. 
The  extent  of  his  subject  permitted  him  to  indulge 
in  those  elaborate  disquisitions  so  congenial  to  the 
spirit  of  modern  history  on  the  most  momentous 
and  interesting  topics,  while  his  early  studies  en- 
abled him  to  embellish  the  drier  details  of  his  nar- 
rative with  the  charms  of  a  liberal  and  elegant 
scholarship. 

What,  then,  was  wanting  to  this  accomplished 
writer?  Good  faith.  His  defects  were  precisely 
of  the  class  of  which  we  have  before  been  speak- 
ing, and  his  most  elaborate  efforts  exhibit  too 
often  the  perversion  of  learning  and  ingenuity  to 
the  vindication  of  preconceived  hypotheses.  He 
cannot,  indeed,  be  convicted  of  ignorance  or  literal 
inaccuracy,  as  he  has  triumphantly  proved  in  his 
discomfiture  of  the  unfortunate  Davis.  But  his 
disingenuous  mode  of  conducting  the  argument 
leads  precisely  to  the  same  unfair  result.  Thus,  in 
his  celebrated  chapters  on  the  "  Progress  of  Chris- 
tianity," which  he  tells  us  were  "  reduced  by  three 
successive  revisals  from  a  bulky  volume  to  their 
present  size,"  he  has  often  slurred  over  in  the  text 
such  particulars  as  might  reflect  most  credit  on 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  105 

the  character  of  the  religion,  or  shuffled  them  into 
a  note  at  the  bottom  of  the  page,  while  all  that 
admits  of  a  doubtful  complexion  in  its  early  prop- 
agation is  ostentatiously  blazoned  and  set  in  con- 
trast to  the  most  amiable  features  of  paganism. 
At  the  same  time,  by  a  style  of  innuendo  that  con- 
veys "  more  than  meets  the  ear,"  he  has  contrived, 
with  lago-like  duplicity,  to  breathe  a  taint  of  sus- 
picion on  the  purity  which  he  dares  not  openly 
assail.  It  would  be  easy  to  furnish  examples  of  all 
this  were  this  the  place  for  them;  but  the  charges 
have  no  novelty,  and  have  been  abundantly  sub- 
stantiated by  others. 

It  is  a  consequence  of  this  scepticism  in  Gibbon, 
as  with  Voltaire,  that  his  writings  are  nowhere 
warmed  with  a  generous  moral  sentiment.  The 
most  sublime  of  all  spectacles,  that  of  the  martyr 
who  suffers  for  conscience'  sake,  and  this  equally 
whether  his  creed  be  founded  in  truth  or  error,  is 
contemplated  by  the  historian  with  the  smile,  or, 
rather,  sneer,  of  philosophic  indifference.  This  is 
not  only  bad  taste,  as  he  is  addressing  a  Christian 
audience,  but  he  thus  voluntarily  relinquishes  one 
of  the  most  powerful  engines  for  the  movement 
of  human  passion,  which  is  never  so  easily  excited 
as  by  deeds  of  suffering,  self -devoted  heroism. 

But,  although  Gibbon  was  wholly  defective  in 
moral  enthusiasm,  his  style  is  vivified  by  a  certain 
exhilarating  glow  that  kindles  a  corresponding 
warmth  in  the  bosom  of  his  reader.  This  may 
perhaps  be  traced  to  his  egotism,  or,  to  speak  more 
liberally,  to  an  ardent  attachment  to  his  profes- 
sional pursuits  and  to  his  inextinguishable  love  of 


106  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

letters.  This  enthusiasm  appears  in  ahnost  every 
page  of  his  great  work,  and  enabled  him  to 
triumph  over  all  its  difficulties.  It  is  particularly 
conspicuous  whenever  he  touches  upon  Rome,  the 
alma  mater  of  science,  whose  adopted  son  he  may 
be  said  to  have  been  from  his  earliest  boyhood. 
Whenever  he  contemplates  her  fallen  fortunes,  he 
mourns  over  her  with  the  fond  solicitude  that 
might  become  an  ancient  Roman;  and  when  he 
depicts  her  pristine  glories,  dimly  seen  through  the 
mist  of  so  many  centuries,  he  does  it  with  such 
vivid  accuracy  of  conception  that  the  reader,  like 
the  traveller  who  wanders  through  the  excavations 
of  Pompeii,  seems  to  be  gazing  on  the  original 
forms  and  brilliant  colors  of  antiquity. 

To  Gibbon's  egotism — in  its  most  literal  sense, 
to  his  personal  vanity — may  be  traced  some  of  the 
peculiar  defects  for  which  his  style  is  conspicuous. 
The  "  historian  of  the  Decline  and  Fall "  too 
rarely  forgets  his  own  importance  in  that  of  his 
subject.  The  consequence  which  he  attaches  to 
his  personal  labors  is  shown  in  a  bloated  dignity 
of  expression  and  an  ostentation  of  ornament  that 
contrast  whimsically  enough  with  the  trifling 
topics  and  commonplace  thoughts  on  which,  in  the 
course  of  his  long  work,  they  are  occasionally  em- 
ployed. He  nowhere  moves  along  with  the  easy 
freedom  of  nature,  but  seems  to  leap,  as  it  were, 
from  triad  to  triad  by  a  succession  of  strained, 
convulsive  efforts.  He  affected,  as  he  tells  us,  the 
light,  festive  raillery  of  Voltaire;  but  his  cum- 
brous imitation  of  the  mercurial  Frenchman  may 
remind  one,  to  make  use  of  a  homely  simile,  of  the 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  107 

ass  in  ^  sop's  fable,  who  frisked  upon  his  master 
in  imitation  of  the  sportive  gambols  of  the  spaniel. 
The  first  two  octavo  volumes  of  Gibbon's  history- 
were  written  in  a  comparatively  modest  and  un- 
affected manner,  for  he  was  then  uncertain  of  the 
pubhc  favor;  and,  indeed,  his  style  was  exceed- 
ingly commended  by  the  most  competent  critics  of 
that  day,  as  Hume,  Joseph  Warton,  and  others, 
as  is  abundantly  shown  in  their  correspondence; 
but  when  he  had  tasted  the  sweets  of  popular  ap- 
plause, and  had  been  crowned  as  the  historian  of 
the  day,  his  increased  consequence  becomes  at  once 
visible  in  the  assumed  stateliness  and  magnificence 
of  his  bearing.  But  even  after  this  period,  when- 
ever the  subject  is  suited  to  his  style,  and  when  his 
phlegmatic  temper  is  warmed  by  those  generous 
emotions  of  which,  as  we  have  said,  it  was  some- 
times susceptible,  he  exhibits  his  ideas  in  the  most 
splendid  and  imposing  forms  of  which  the  English 
language  is  capable. 

The  most  eminent  illustrations  of  the  system  of 
historical  writing,  which  we  have  been  discussing, 
that  have  appeared  in  England  in  the  present  cen- 
tury, are  the  works  of  ^Ir.  Hallam,  in  which  the 
author,  discarding  most  of  the  circumstances  that 
go  to  make  up  mere  narrative,  endeavors  to  fix  the 
attention  of  the  reader  on  the  more  important 
features  of  constitutional  polity,  employing  his 
wide  range  of  materials  in  strict  subordination  to 
this  purpose. 

But,  while  history  has  thus  been  conducted  on 
nearly  the  same  principles  in  England  for  the  last 
century,  a  new  path  has  been  struck  out  in  France, 


108  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

or,  rather,  an  attempt  has  lately  been  made  there 
to  retrace  the  old  one.  M.  de  Barante,  no  less  esti- 
mable as  a  literary  critic  than  as  a  historian,  in  the 
preliminary  remarks  to  his  "  Histoire  des  Dues 
de  Bourgogne,"  considers  the  draughts  of  modern 
compilers  as  altogether  wanting  in  the  vivacity 
and  freshness  of  their  originals.  They  tell  the 
reader  how  he  should  feel,  instead  of  making  him 
do  so.  They  give  him  their  own  results,  instead  of 
enabling  him,  by  a  fair  delineation  of  incidents, 
to  form  his  own.  And  while  the  early  chroniclers, 
in  spite  of  their  unformed  and  obsolete  idiom,  are 
still  read  with  delight,  the  narratives  of  the  former 
are  too  often  dry,  languid,  and  uninteresting.  He 
proposes,  therefore,  by  a  close  adherence  to  his 
originals,  to  extract,  as  it  were,  the  spirit  of  their 
works,  without  any  affectation,  however,  of  their 
antiquated  phraseology,  and  to  exhibit  as  vivid 
and  veracious  a  portraiture  as  possible  of  the  times 
he  is  delineating,  unbroken  by  any  discussions  or 
reflections  of  his  own.  The  result  has  been  a  work 
in  eleven  octavo  volumes,  which,  notwithstanding 
its  bulk,  has  already  passed  into  four  editions. 

The  two  last  productions  of  our  countryman 
Mr.  Irving  undoubtedly  fall  within  the  class  of 
narrative  history.  To  this  he  seems  peculiarly 
suited  by  his  genius,  his  fine  perception  of  moral 
and  natural  beauty,  his  power  of  discriminating  the 
most  delicate  shades  of  character  and  of  unfold- 
ing a  series  of  events  so  as  to  maintain  a  lively 
interest  in  the  reader,  and  a  lactea  uhertas  of  ex- 
pression which  can  impart  a  living  eloquence  even 
to  the  most  commonplace  sentiments.     Had  the 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  109 

"Life  of  Columbus"  been  written  by  a  historian 
of  the  other  school  of  which  we  have  been  speak- 
ing, he  would  have  enlarged  with  greater  circum- 
stantiality on  the  system  adopted  by  Ferdinand 
and  Isabella  for  the  administration  of  their  colo- 
nies and  for  the  regulation  of  trade ;  nor  would  he 
have  neglected  to  descant  on  a  topic — worn  some- 
what threadbare,  it  must  be  owned- — so  momen- 
tous as  the  moral  and  political  consequences  of  the 
discovery  of  America;  neither  would  such  a 
writer,  in  an  account  of  the  conquest  of  Granada, 
have  omitted  to  collect  such  particulars  as  might 
throw  light  on  the  genius,  social  institutions,  and 
civil  polity  of  the  Spanish  Arabs.  But  all  these 
particulars,  however  pertinent  to  a  philosophical 
history,  would  have  been  entirely  out  of  keeping  in 
Mr.  Irving's,  and  might  have  produced  a  disagree- 
able discordance  in  the  general  harmony  of  his 
plan. 

Mr.  Irving  has  seldom  selected  a  subject  better 
suited  to  his  peculiar  powers  than  the  conquest  of 
Granada.  Indeed,  it  would  hardly  have  been  pos- 
sible for  one  of  his  warm  sensibilities  to  linger  so 
long  among  the  remains  of  JMoorish  magnificence 
with  which  Spain  is  covered,  without  being  inter- 
ested in  the  fortunes  of  a  people  whose  memory 
has  almost  passed  iiito  oblivion,  but  who  once  pre- 
served the  "  sacred  flame  "  when  it  had  become 
extinct  in  every  corner  of  Christendom,  and  whose 
influence  is  still  visible  on  the  intellectual  culture 
of  Modern  Europe.  It  has  been  found  no  easy 
matter,  however,  to  compile  a  satisfactory  and 
authentic  account  of  the  Arabians,  notwithstand- 


110  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

ing  that  the  number  of  their  historians,  cited  by 
D'Herbelot  and  Casiri,  would  appear  to  exceed 
that  of  any  European  nation.  The  despotic  gov- 
ernments of  the  East  have  never  been  found  pro- 
pitious to  that  independence  of  opinion  so  essential 
to  historical  composition:  "  ubi  sentire  quae  velis, 
et  qu£e  sentias  dicere  hcet."  And  their  copious 
compilations,  prolific  in  frivolous  and  barren  de- 
tail, are  too  often  wholly  destitute  of  the  sap  and 
vitahty  of  history. 

The  social  and  moral  institutions  of  Arabian 
Spain  experienced  a  considerable  modification 
from  her  long  intercourse  with  the  Europeans, 
and  she  offers  a  nobler  field  of  research  for  the 
chronicler  than  is  to  be  found  in  any  other  country 
of  the  Moslem.  Notwithstanding  this,  the  Cas- 
tilian  scholars,  until  of  late,  have  done  little  to- 
wards elucidating  the  national  antiquities  of  their 
Saracen  brethren;  and  our  most  copious  notices 
of  their  political  history,  until  the  recent  post- 
humous publication  of  Conde,  have  been  drawn 
from  the  extracts  which  M.  Cardonne  translated 
from  the  Arabic  Manuscripts  in  the  Royal  Li- 
brary at  Paris.* 

The  most  interesting  periods  of  the  Saracen  do- 
minion in  Spain  are  those  embraced  by  the  empire 
of  the  Omeyades  of  Cordova,  between  the  years 

*  [Since  this  article  was  written,  the  deficiency  noticed  in  the  text 
has  been  supplied  by  the  translation  into  English  of  Al-Makkari's 
"  Mohammedan  Dynasties,"  with  copious  notes  and  illustrations  by 
Don  Pascual  de  Gayangos,  a  scholar  whose  acute  criticism  has 
enabled  him  to  rectify  many  of  the  errors  of  his  laborious  predeces- 
sors and  whose  profound  Oriental  learning  sheds  a  flood  of  light  on 
both  the  civil  and  literary  history  of  the  Spanish  Arabs.] 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  111 

755  and  1030,  and  that  of  the  kingdom  of  Gra- 
nada, extending  from  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth 
to  the  close  of  the  fifteenth  century.  The  inter- 
vening period  of  their  existence  in  the  Peninsula 
offers  only  a  spectacle  of  inextricable  anarchy. 
The  first  of  those  periods  was  that  in  which  the 
Arabs  attained  their  meridian  of  opulence  and 
power,  and  in  which  their  general  illumination 
affords  a  striking  contrast  with  the  deep  bar- 
barism of  the  rest  of  Europe ;  but  it  was  that,  too, 
in  which  their  character,  having  been  but  little 
affected  by  contact  with  the  Spaniards,  retained 
most  of  its  original  Asiatic  peculiarities.  This  has 
never  been  regarded,  therefore,  by  European 
scholars  as  a  period  of  great  interest  in  their  his- 
tory, nor  has  it  ever,  so  far  as  we  are  aware,  been 
selected  for  the  purposes  of  romantic  fiction.  But 
when  their  territories  became  reduced  within  the 
limits  of  Granada,  the  Moors  had  insensibly  sub- 
mitted to  the  superior  influences  of  their  Christian 
neighbors.  Their  story,  at  this  time,  abounds  in 
passages  of  uncommon  beauty  and  interest. 
Their  wars  were  marked  by  feats  of  personal 
prowess  and  romantic  adventure,  while  the  inter- 
vals of  peace  were  abandoned  to  all  the  license  of 
luxurious  revelry.  Their  character,  therefore, 
blending  the  various  peculiarities  of  Oriental  and 
European  civilization,  offers  a  rich  study  for  the 
poet  and  the  novelist.  As  such,  it  has  been  liber- 
ally employed  by  the  Spaniards,  and  has  not  been 
altogether  neglected  by  the  writers  of  other  na- 
tions. Thus,  Florian,  whose  sentiments,  as  well  as 
his  style,  seem  to  be  always  floundering  midway 


112  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

between  the  regions  of  prose  and  poetry,  has  made 
out  of  the  story  of  this  people  his  popular  romance 
of  "  Gonsalvo  of  Cordova."  It  also  forms  the  bur- 
den of  an  Italian  epic,  entitled  "  II  Conquista  di 
Granata,"  by  Girolamo  Gratiani,  a  Florentine, — 
much  lauded  by  his  countrymen.  The  ground, 
however,  before  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Irving, 
had  not  been  occupied  by  any  writer  of  eminence 
in  the  English  language  for  the  purposes  either  of 
romance  or  history. 

The  conquest  of  Granada,  to  which  Mr.  Irving 
has  confined  himself,  so  disastrous  to  the  Moors, 
was  one  of  the  most  brilliant  achievements  in  the 
most  brilliant  period  of  Spanish  history.  Nothing 
is  more  usual  than  overweening  commendations  of 
antiquity, — the  "  good  old  times  "  whose  harsher 
features,  like  those  of  a  rugged  landscape,  lose  all 
their  asperity  in  the  distance.  But  the  period  of 
which  we  are  speaking,  embracing  the  reigns  of 
Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  at  the  close  of  the  fif- 
teenth and  beginning  of  the  sixteenth  centuries, 
was  undoubtedly  that  in  which  the  Spanish  nation 
displayed  the  fulness  of  its  moral  and  physical 
energies,  when,  escaping  from  the  license  of  a 
youthful  age,  it  seems  to  have  reached  the  prime 
of  manhood  and  the  perfect  development  of  those 
faculties  whose  overstrained  exertions  were  soon 
to  be  followed  by  exhaustion  and  premature  de- 
crepitude. 

The  remnant  of  Spaniards  who,  retreating  to 
the  mountains  of  the  north,  escaped  the  over- 
whelming inundation  of  the  Saracens  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  eighth  century,  continued  to  cherish 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  113 

the  free  institutions  of  their  Gothic  ancestors. 
The  "  Fuero  Juzgo,"  the  ancient  Visi-Gothic  code, 
was  still  retained  by  the  people  of  Castile  and 
Leon,  and  may  be  said  to  form  the  basis  of  all  their 
subsequent  legislation,  while  in  Aragon  the  dis- 
solution of  the  primitive  monarchy  opened  the 
way  for  even  more  liberal  and  equitable  forms  of 
government.  The  independence  of  character  thus 
fostered  by  the  pecuhar  constitutions  of  these 
petty  states  was  still  farther  promoted  by  the 
circumstances  of  their  situation.  Their  uninter- 
rupted wars  with  the  infidel — the  necessity  of  win- 
ning back  from  him,  inch  by  inch,  as  it  were,  the 
conquered  soil — required  the  active  co-operation 
of  every  class  of  the  community,  and  gave  to  the 
mass  of  the  people  an  intrepidity,  a  personal  con- 
sequence, and  an  extent  of  immunities,  such  as 
were  not  enjoyed  by  them  in  any  other  country  of 
Europe.  The  free  cities  acquired  considerable 
tracts  of  the  reconquered  territory,  with  rights  of 
jurisdiction  over  them,  and  sent  their  representa- 
tives to  Cortes,  nearly  a  century  before  a  similar 
privilege  was  conceded  to  them  in  England. 
Even  the  peasantry,  so  degraded  at  this  period 
throughout  the  rest  of  Europe,  assumed  under 
this  state  of  things  a  conscious  dignity  and  impor- 
tance, which  are  visible  in  their  manners  at  this 
day;  and  it  was  in  this  class,  during  the  late 
French  invasions,  that  the  fire  of  ancient  patri- 
otism re\dved  with  greatest  force,  when  it  seemed 
almost  extinct  in  the  breasts  of  the  degenerate 
nobles. 

The  religious  feeling  which  mingled  in  their 

Vol.  I.— 8 


114.  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

wars  with  the  infidels  gave  to  their  character  a 
tinge  of  lofty  enthusiasm;  and  the  irregular  na- 
ture of  this  warfare  suggested  abundant  topics 
for  that  popular  minstrelsy  which  acts  so  power- 
fully on  the  passions  of  a  people.  The  "  Poem  of 
the  Cid,"  which  appeared,  according  to  Sanchez, 
before  the  middle  of  the  twelfth  century,  contrib- 
uted in  no  slight  degree,  by  calling  up  the  most 
inspiring  national  recollections,  to  keep  alive  the 
generous  glow  of  patriotism.  This  influence  is 
not  imaginary.  Heeren  pronounces  the  "  poems 
of  Homer  to  have  been  the  principal  bond  which 
united  the  Grecian  states; "  and  every  one  knows 
the  influence  exercised  over  the  Scottish  peasantry 
by  the  Border  minstrelsy.  Many  anecdotes  might 
be  quoted  to  show  the  veneration  universally  enter- 
tained by  the  Spaniards,  broken,  as  they  were,  into 
as  many  discordant  states  as  ever  swarmed  over 
Greece,  for  their  favorite  hero  of  romance  and  his- 
tory. Among  others,  Mariana  relates  one  of  a 
king  of  Navarre,  who,  making  an  incursion  into 
Castile  about  a  century  after  the  warrior's  death, 
was  carrying  off  a  rich  booty,  when  he  was  met  by 
an  abbot  of  a  neighboring  convent,  with  his  monks, 
bearing  aloft  the  standard  of  the  Cid,  who  im- 
plored him  to  restore  the  plunder  to  the  inhabi- 
tants from  whom  he  had  ravished  it.  And  the 
monarch,  moved  by  the  sight  of  the  sacred  relic, 
after  complying  with  his  request,  escorted  back 
the  banner  in  solemn  procession  with  his  whole 
army  to  the  place  of  its  deposit. 

But,  while  all  these  circumstances  conspired  to 
give  an  uncommon  elevation  to  the  character  of 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  115 

the  ancient  Spaniard,  even  of  the  humblest  rank, 
and  while  the  prerogative  of  the  monarch  was 
more  precisely  as  well  as  narrowly  defined  than  in 
most  of  the  other  nations  of  Christendom,  the  aris- 
tocracy of  the  country  was  insensibly  extending 
its  privileges,  and  laying  the  foundation  of  a 
power  that  eventually  overshadowed  the  throne 
and  wellnigh  subverted  the  liberties  of  the  state. 
In  addition  to  the  usual  enormous  immunities 
claimed  by  this  order  in  feudal  governments 
(although  there  is  no  reason  to  believe  that  the 
system  of  feudal  tenure  obtained  in  Castile,  as  it 
certainly  did  in  Aragon),  they  enjoyed  a  consti- 
tutional privilege  of  withdrawing  their  allegiance 
from  their  sovereign  on  sending  him  a  formal 
notice  of  such  renunciation,  and  the  sovereign,  on 
his  part,  was  obliged  to  provide  for  the  security  of 
their  estates  and  families  so  long  as  they  might 
choose  to  continue  in  such  overt  rebellion.  These 
anarchical  provisions  in  their  constitution  did  not 
remain  a  dead  letter,  and  repeated  examples  of 
their  pernicious  application  are  enumerated  both 
by  the  historians  of  Aragon  and  Castile.  The  long 
minorities  with  which  the  latter  country  was 
afflicted,  moreover,  contributed  stiU  farther  to 
swell  the  overgrown  power  of  the  privileged 
orders;  and  the  violent  revolution  which,  in  1368, 
placed  the  house  of  Trastamarre  upon  the  throne, 
by  impairing  the  revenues,  and  consequently  the 
authority  of  the  crown,  opened  the  way  for  the 
wild  uproar  which  reigned  throughout  the  king- 
dom during  the  succeeding  century.  Alonso  de 
Palencia,  a  contemporary  chronicler,  dwells  with 


116  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

melancholy  minuteness  on  the  calamities  of  this 
unhappy  period,  when  the  whole  country  was  spht 
into  factions  of  the  nobles,  the  monarch  openly 
contemned,  the  commons  trodden  in  the  dust,  the 
court  become  a  brothel,  the  treasury  bankrupt, 
public  faith  a  jest,  and  private  morals  too  loose 
and  audacious  to  court  even  the  veil  of  hypocrisy. 

The  wise  administration  of  Ferdinand  and  Isa- 
bella could  alone  have  saved  the  state  in  this  hour 
of  peril.  It  effected,  indeed,  a  change  on  the  face 
of  things  as  magical  as  that  produced  by  the  wand 
of  an  enchanter  in  some  Eastern  tale.  Their  reign 
wears  a  more  glorious  aspect  from  its  contrast  with 
the  turbulent  period  which  preceded  it,  as  the  land- 
scape glows  Mdth  redoubled  brilliancy  when  the 
sunshine  has  scattered  the  tempest.  We  shall 
briefly  notice  some  of  the  features  of  the  policy 
by  which  they  effected  this  change. 

They  obtained  from  the  Cortes  an  act  for  the 
resumption  of  the  improvident  grants  made  by 
their  predecessor,  by  which  means  an  immense  ac- 
cession of  revenue,  which  had  been  squandered 
upon  unworthy  favorites,  was  brought  back  to  the 
royal  treasury.  They  compelled  many  of  the 
nobility  to  resign,  in  favor  of  the  crown,  such  of 
its  possessions  as  they  had  acquired,  by  force, 
fraud,  or  intrigue,  during  the  late  season  of  an- 
archy. The  son  of  that  gallant  Marquis  Duke  of 
Cadiz,  for  instance,  wdth  whom  the  reader  has  be- 
come so  famihar  in  Mr.  Irving's  Chronicle,  was 
stripped  of  his  patrimony  of  Cadiz  and  compelled 
to  exchange  it  for  the  humbler  territory  of  Arcos, 
from  whence  the  family  henceforth  derived  their 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  117 

title.  By  aU  these  expedients  the  revenues  of  the 
state  at  the  demise  of  Isabella,  were  increased 
twelvefold  beyond  what  they  had  been  at  the  time 
of  her  accession.  They  reorganized  the  ancient  in- 
stitution of  the  "  Hermandad," — a  very  different 
association,  under  their  hands,  from  the  "  Holy 
Brotherhood  "  which  we  meet  with  in  Gil  Bias. 
Every  hundred  householders  were  obliged  to  equip 
and  maintain  a  horseman  at  their  joint  expense; 
and  this  corps  furnished  a  vigilant  police  in  civil 
emergencies  and  an  effectual  aid  in  war.  It  was 
found,  moreover,  of  especial  service  in  suppress- 
ing the  insurrections  and  disorders  of  the  nobility. 
They  were  particularly  solicitous  to  abolish  the 
right  and  usage  of  private  war  claimed  by  this 
haughty  order,  compelling  them  on  all  occasions 
to  refer  their  disputes  to  the  constituted  tribunals 
of  justice.  But  it  was  a  capital  feature  in  the 
policy  of  the  Catholic  sovereigns  to  counterbal- 
ance the  authority  of  the  aristocracy  by  exalting, 
as  far  as  prudent,  that  of  the  commons.  In  the 
various  convocations  of  the  national  legislature, 
or  Cortes,  in  this  reign,  no  instance  occurs  of  any 
city  having  lost  its  prescriptive  right  of  furnish- 
ing representatives,  as  had  frequently  happened 
under  preceding  monarchs,  who,  from  negligence 
or  policy,  had  omitted  to  summon  them. 

But  it  would  be  tedious  to  go  into  all  the  details 
of  the  system  employed  by  Ferdinand  and  Isabella 
for  the  regeneration  of  the  decayed  fabric  of  gov- 
ernment; of  their  wholesome  regulations  for  the 
encouragement  of  industry;  of  their  organization 
of  a  national  militia  and  an  efficient  marine;   of 


118  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

the  severe  decorum  which  they  introduced  within 
the  corrupt  precincts  of  the  court;  of  the  tem- 
porary economy  by  which  they  controlled  the  pub- 
He  expenditures,  and  of  the  munificent  patronage 
which  they,  or,  rather,  their  almoner  on  this  occa- 
sion, that  most  enlightened  of  bigots,  Cardinal 
Ximenes,  dispensed  to  science  and  letters.  In 
short,  their  sagacious  provisions  were  not  merely 
remedial  of  former  abuses,  but  were  intended  to 
call  forth  all  the  latent  energies  of  the  Spanish 
character,  and,  with  these  excellent  materials  to 
erect  a  constitution  of  government  which  should 
secure  to  the  nation  tranquillity  at  home,  and  ena- 
ble it  to  go  forward  in  its  ambitious  career  of  dis- 
covery and  conquest. 

The  results  were  certainly  equal  to  the  wisdom 
of  the  preparations.  The  first  of  the  series  of 
brilliant  enterprises  was  the  conquest  of  the  Moor- 
ish kingdom  of  Granada, — those  rich  and  lovely 
regions  of  the  Peninsula,  the  last  retreat  of  the 
infidel,  and  which  he  had  held  for  nearly  eight 
centuries.  This,  together  with  the  subsequent 
occupation  of  Navarre  by  the  crafty  Ferdinand, 
consolidated  the  various  principalities  of  Spain 
into  one  monarchy,  and,  by  extending  its  boun- 
daries in  the  Peninsula  to  their  present  dimensions, 
raised  it  from  a  subordinate  situation  to  the  first 
class  of  European  powers.  The  Italian  wars,  under 
the  conduct  of  the  "  Great  Captain,"  secured  to 
Spain  the  more  specious  but  less  useful  acquisition 
of  Naples,  and  formed  that  invincible  infantry 
which  enabled  Charles  the  Fifth  to  dictate  laws  to 
Europe  for  nearly  half  a  century.    And,  lastly,  as 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  119 

if  the  Old  World  could  not  afford  a  theatre  suffi- 
ciently vast  for  their  ambition,  Columbus  gave  a 
New  World  to  Castile  and  Leon. 

Such  was  the  attitude  assumed  by  the  nation  un- 
der the  Catholic  kings,  as  they  were  called.  It  was 
the  season  of  hope  and  youthful  enterprise,  when 
the  nation  seemed  to  be  renewing  its  ancient  ener- 
gies and  to  prepare  like  a  giant  to  run  its  course. 
The  modern  Spaniard  who  casts  his  eye  over  the 
long  interval  that  has  since  elapsed,  during  the 
first  half  of  which  the  nation  seemed  to  waste  itself 
on  schemes  of  mad  ambition  or  fierce  fanaticism, 
and  in  the  latter  half  to  sink  into  a  state  of  para- 
lytic torpor, — the  Spaniard,  we  say,  who  casts  a 
melancholy  glance  over  this  dreary  interval  will 
turn  w4th  satisfaction  to  the  close  of  the  fifteenth 
century  as  the  most  glorious  epoch  in  the  annals 
of  his  country.  This  is  the  period  to  which  Mr. 
Irving  has  introduced  us  in  his  late  work.  And 
if  his  portraiture  of  the  Castilian  of  that  day  wears 
somewhat  of  a  romantic  and,  it  may  be,  incredible 
aspect  to  those  who  contrast  it  with  the  present, 
they  must  remember  that  he  is  only  re^dving  the 
tints  which  had  faded  on  the  canvas  of  history. 
But  it  is  time  that  we  should  return  from  this  long 
digression,  into  which  we  have  been  led  by  the  de- 
sire of  exhibiting  in  stronger  relief  some  peculiari- 
ties in  the  situation  and  spirit  of  the  nation  at  the 
period  from  which  Mr.  Irving  has  selected  the 
materials  of  his  last,  indeed,  his  last  two  publica- 
tions. 

Our  author,  in  his  "  Chronicle  of  Granada,"  has 
been  but  slightly  indebted  to  Arabic  authorities. 


120  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

Neither  Conde  nor  Cardonne  has  expended  more 
than  fifty  or  sixty  pages  on  this  humihating  topic ; 
but  ample  amends  have  been  offered  in  the  copious 
proUxity  of  the  Castihan  writers.  The  Spaniards 
can  boast  a  succession  of  chronicles  from  the 
period  of  the  great  Saracen  invasion.  Those  of  a 
more  early  date,  compiled  in  rude  Latin,  are  suffi- 
ciently meagre  and  unsatisfactory;  but  from  the 
middle  of  the  thirteenth  century  the  stream  of 
history  runs  full  and  clear,  and  their  chronicles, 
composed  in  the  vernacular,  exhibit  a  richness  and 
picturesque  variety  of  incident  that  gave  them 
inestimable  value  as  a  body  of  genuine  historical 
documents.  The  reigns  of  Ferdinand  and  Isa- 
bella were  particularly  fruitful  in  these  sources  of 
information.  History  then,  like  most  of  the  other 
departments  of  literature,  seemed  to  be  in  a  state 
of  transition,  when  the  fashions  of  its  more  anti- 
quated costume  began  to  mingle  insensibly  with 
the  peculiarities  of  the  modern ;  when,  in  short,  the 
garrulous  graces  of  narration  were  beginning  to 
be  tempered  by  the  tone  of  grave  and  philosophical 
reflection. 

We  will  briefly  notice  a  few  of  the  eminent 
sources  from  which  Mr.  Irving  has  drawn  his  ac- 
count of  the  "  Conquest  of  Granada."  The  fii'st 
of  these  is  the  Epistles  of  Peter  Martyr,  an  Italian 
savant,  who,  having  passed  over  with  the  Spanish 
ambassador  into  Spain,  and  being  introduced  into 
the  court  of  Isabella,  was  employed  by  her  in  some 
important  embassies.  He  was  personally  present 
at  several  campaigns  of  this  war.  In  his  "  Let- 
ters" he  occasionally  smiles  at  the  caprice  which 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  121 

had  led  him  to  exchange  the  pen  for  the  sword, 
while  his  speculations  on  the  events  passing  be- 
fore him,  being  those  of  a  scholar  rather  than 
of  a  soldier,  afford  in  their  moral  complexion  a 
pleasing  contrast  to  the  dreary  details  of  blood 
and  battle.  Another  authority  is  the  Chronicle 
of  Bernaldez,  a  worthy  ecclesiastic  of  that  period, 
whose  bulky  manuscript,  like  that  of  many  a  bet- 
ter WTiter,  lies  still  engulfed  in  the  dust  of  some 
Spanish  library,  having  never  been  admitted  to 
the  honors  of  the  press.*  Copies  of  it,  however, 
are  freely  circulated.  It  is  one  of  those  good- 
natured,  gossiping  memorials  of  an  antique  age, 
abounding  equally  in  curious  and  commonplace 
incident,  told  in  a  way  sufficiently  prolix,  but 
not  without  considerable  interest.  The  testimony 
of  this  writer  is  of  particular  value,  moreover,  on 
this  occasion,  from  the  proximity  of  his  residence 
in  Andalusia  to  those  scenes  which  w^re  the  seat  of 
the  war.  His  style  overflows  with  that  religious 
loyalty  wdth  which  Mr.  Ir-ving  has  liberally  sea- 
soned the  effusions  of  Fra  Antonio  Agapida. 
Hernando  del  Pulgar,  another  contemporary  his- 
torian, was  the  secretary  and  counsellor  of  their 
Catholic  majesties,  and  appointed  by  them  to  the 
post  of  national  chronicler,  an  office  familiar  both 
to  the  courts  of  Castile  and  Aragon,  in  which  latter 
country,  especialty,  it  has  been  occupied  by  some 
of  its  most  distinguished  historians.  Pulgar's 
long  residence  at  court,  his  practical  acquaintance 
with  affairs,  and,  above  all,  the  access  which  he  ob- 

*  An  edition  of  this  Chronicle  was  published  in  Granada  in  the 
latter  half  of  the   Nineteenth   Century. — ;M. 


122  CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES 

tained,  by  means  of  his  official  station,  to  the  best 
sources  of  information,  have  enabled  him  to  make 
his  work  a  rich  repository  of  facts  relating  to  the 
general  resources  of  government,  the  policy  of  its 
administration,  and,  more  particularly,  the  con- 
duct of  the  military  operations  in  the  closing  war 
of  Granada,  of  which  he  was  himself  an  eye-wit- 
ness. In  addition  to  these  writers,  this  period  has 
been  illumined  by  the  labors  of  the  most  celebrated 
historians  of  Castile  and  Aragon,  Mariana  and 
Zurita,  both  of  whom  conclude  their  narratives 
with  it,  the  last  expanding  the  biography  of  Fer- 
dinand alone  into  two  volumes  folio.  Besides 
these,  Mr.  Irving  has  derived  collateral  lights  from 
many  sources  of  inferior  celebrity  but  not  less  un- 
suspicious credit.  So  that,  in  conclusion,  notwith- 
standing a  certain  dramatic  coloring  which  Fra 
Agapida's  "  Chronicle  "  occasionally  wears,  and 
notwithstanding  the  romantic  forms  of  a  style 
which,  to  borrow  the  language  of  Cicero,  seems 
"  to  flow,  as  it  were,  from  the  very  lips  of  the 
Muses,"  we  may  honestly  recommend  it  as  sub- 
stantially an  authentic  record  of  one  of  the  most 
interesting  and,  as  far  as  English  scholars  are  con- 
cerned, one  of  the  most  untravelled  portions  of 
Spanish  history. 


CERVANTES  * 

(July,  1837) 

THE  publication,  in  this  country,  of  an  im- 
portant Spanish  classic  in  the  original,  with 
a  valuable  commentary,  is  an  event  of  some  mo- 
ment in  our  literary  annals,  and  indicates  a  famili- 
arity, rapidly  increasing,  with  the  beautiful  litera- 
ture to  which  it  belongs.  It  may  be  received  as 
an  omen  favorable  to  the  cause  of  modern  litera- 
ture in  general,  the  study  of  which,  in  all  its 
varieties,  may  be  urged  on  substantially  the  same 
grounds.  The  growing  importance  attached  to 
this  branch  of  education  is  visible  in  other  countries 
quite  as  much  as  in  our  own.  It  is  the  natural, 
or,  rather,  necessary  result  of  the  changes  which 
have  taken  place  in  the  social  relations  of  man  in 
this  revolutionary  age.  Formerly  a  nation,  pent 
up  within  its  own  barriers,  knew  less  of  its  neigh- 
bors than  we  now  know  of  what  is  going  on  in 
Siam  or  Japan.  A  river,  a  chain  of  mountains,  an 
imaginary  line,  even,  parted  them  as  far  asunder 
as  if  oceans  had  rolled  between.  To  speak  cor- 
rectly, it  was  their  imperfect  civilization,  their 

*  "  El  Ingenioso  Hidalgo  Don  Quijote  de  la  Mancha,  compuesto 
por  Miguel  de  Cervantes  Saavedra.  Nueva  Edicion  clasica,  ilus- 
trada  con  Notas  historicas,  gramaticales  y  criticas,  por  la  Academia 
Espanola,  sus  Individuos  de  Niimero  Pellicer,  Arrieta,  y  Clemencin. 
Enmendada  y  corregida  por  Francisco  Sales,  A.M.,  Instructor  de 
Frances  y  Espaiiol  en  la  Universidad  de  Harvard,  en  Cambrigia, 
Estado  de  Massachusetts,  Norte  America,"  2  vols.  12mo,  Boston, 
1836. 

123 


IM  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

ignorance  of  the  means  and  the  subjects  of  com- 
munication, which  thus  kept  them  asunder.  Now, 
on  the  contrary,  a  change  in  the  domestic  institu- 
tions of  one  country  can  hardly  be  effected  without 
a  corresponding  agitation  in  those  of  its  neighbors. 
A  treaty  of  aUiance  can  scarcely  be  adjusted  with- 
out the  intervention  of  a  general  Congress.  The 
sword  cannot  be  unsheathed  in  one  part  of  Chris- 
tendom without  thousands  leaping  from  their  scab- 
bards in  every  other.  The  whole  system  is  bound 
together  by  as  nice  sympathies  as  if  animated  by 
a  common  pulse,  and  the  remotest  countries  of 
Europe  are  brought  into  contiguity  as  intimate  as 
were  in  ancient  times  the  provinces  of  a  single 
monarchy. 

This  intimate  association  has  been  prodigiously 
increased  of  late  years  by  the  unprecedented  dis- 
coveries which  science  has  made  for  facilitating 
intercommunication.  The  inhabitants  of  Great 
Britain,  that  "  ultima  Thule  "  of  the  ancients,  can 
now  run  down  to  the  extremity  of  Italy  in  less  time 
than  it  took  Horace  to  go  from  Rome  to  Brundu- 
sium.  A  steamboat  of  fashionable  tourists  will 
touch  at  all  the  places  of  note  in  the  Iliad  and 
Odyssey  in  fewer  weeks  than  it  would  have  cost 
years  to  an  ancient  Argonaut  or  a  crusader  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  Every  one,  of  course,  travels,  and 
almost  every  capital  and  noted  watering-place  on 
the  Continent  swarms  with  its  thousands,  and 
Paris  with  its  tens  of  thousands,  of  itinerant  cock- 
neys, many  of  whom,  perhaps,  have  not  wandered 
beyond  the  sound  of  Bow-bells  in  their  own  little 
island. 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  125 

Few  of  these  adventurers  are  so  dull  as  not  to 
be  quickened  into  something  like  curiosity  respect- 
ing the  language  and  institutions  of  the  strange 
people  among  whom  they  are  thrown,  while  the 
better  sort  and  more  intelligent  are  led  to  study 
more  carefully  the  new  forms,  whether  in  arts  or 
letters,  under  which  human  genius  is  unveiled  to 
them. 

The  effect  of  all  this  is  especially  visible  in  the 
reforms  introduced  into  the  modern  systems  of 
education.  In  both  the  universities  recently  estab- 
lished in  London,  the  apparatus  for  instruction, 
instead  of  being  limited  to  the  ancient  tongues,  is 
extended  to  the  whole  circle  of  modern  literature ; 
and  the  editorial  labors  of  many  of  the  professors 
show  that  they  do  not  sleep  on  their  posts.  Peri- 
odicals, under  the  management  of  the  ablest 
writers,  furnish  valuable  contributions  of  foreign 
criticism  and  intelligence ;  and  regular  histories  of 
the  various  Continental  literatures,  a  department 
in  which  the  English  are  singularly  barren,  are 
understood  to  be  now  in  actual  preparation. 

But,  although  barren  of  literary,  the  English 
have  made  important  contributions  to  the  political 
history  of  the  Continental  nations.  That  of  Spain 
has  employed  some  of  their  best  viTiters,  who,  it 
must  be  admitted,  however,  have  confined  them- 
selves so  far  to  the  foreign  relations  of  the  coun- 
try as  to  have  left  the  domestic  in  comparative 
obscurity.  Thus,  Robertson's  great  work  is  quite 
as  much  the  history  of  Europe  as  of  Spain  under 
Charles  the  Fifth;  and  Watson's  "Reign  of 
Philip  the  Second  "  might  with  equal  propriety  be 


126  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

styled  "  The  War  of  the  Netherlands,"  which  is 
its  principal  burden. 

A  few  works  recentty  published  in  the  United 
States  have  shed  far  more  light  on  the  interior 
organization  and  intellectual  culture  of  the  Span- 
ish nation.  Such,  for  example,  are  the  writings  of 
Irving,  whose  gorgeous  coloring  reflects  so  clearly 
the  chivalrous  splendors  of  the  fifteenth  century, 
and  the  travels  of  Lieutenant  Slidell,  presenting 
sketches  equally  animated  of  the  social  aspect  of 
that  most  picturesque  of  all  lands  in  the  present 
century.  In  Mr.  Cushing's  "  Reminiscences  of 
Spain  "  we  find,  mingled  ^vith  much  characteristic 
fiction,  some  very  laborious  inquiries  into  curious 
and  recondite  points  of  history.  In  the  purely 
literary  department,  *  ]Mr.  Ticknor's  beautiful  lec- 
tures before  the  classes  of  Harvard  University, 
still  in  manuscript,  embrace  a  far  more  extensive 
range  of  criticism  than  is  to  be  found  in  any  Span- 
ish work,  and  display,  at  the  same  time,  a  degree 
of  thoroughness  and  research  which  the  compara- 
tive paucity  of  materials  will  compel  us  to  look 
for  in  vain  in  Bouterwek  or  Sismondi.  IVIr.  Tick- 
nor's successor,  Professor  Longfellow,  favorably 
known  by  other  compositions,  has  enriched  our 
language  with  a  noble  version  of  the  "  Coplas  de 
Manrique,"  the  finest  gem,  beyond  all  comparison, 
in  the  Castilian  verse  of  the  fifteenth  century.  We 
have  also  read  with  pleasure  a  clever  translation  of 
Quevedo's  "  Visions,"  no  very  easy  achievement, 
by  Mr.  Elliot,  of  Philadelphia;  though  the  trans- 

*  Ticknor's  History  of  Spanish  Literature  was  published  in  1849. 
See  the  last  review  in  Vol.  II.  of  the  Miscellanies. — M. 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  127 

lator  is  ^vrong  in  supposing  his  the  first  Enghsh 
version.  The  first  is  as  old  as  Queen  Anne's  time, 
and  was  made  by  the  famous  Sir  Roger  L'Es- 
trange.  To  close  the  account,  Mr.  Sales,  the  ven- 
erable instructor  in  Harvard  College,  has  now 
given,  for  the  first  time  in  the  New  World,  an 
elaborate  edition  of  the  prince  of  Castilian  classics, 
in  a  form  which  may  claim,  to  a  certain  extent,  the 
merit  of  originality. 

We  shall  postpone  the  few  remarks  we  have  to 
make  on  this  edition  to  the  close  of  our  article; 
and  in  the  mean  time  we  propose,  not  to  give  the 
life  of  Cervantes,  but  to  notice  such  points  as  are 
least  famihar  in  his  hterary  history,  and  especially 
in  regard  to  the  composition  and  publication  of  his 
great  work,  the  Don  Quixote ;  a  work  which,  from 
its  wide  and  long-established  popularity,  may  be 
said  to  constitute  part  of  the  literature  not  merely 
of  Spain,  but  of  every  country  in  Europe. 

The  age  of  Cervantes  was  that  of  Philip  the 
Second,  when  the  Spanish  monarchy,  declining 
somewhat  from  its  palmy  state,  was  still  making 
extraordinary  efforts  to  maintain,  and  even  to  ex- 
tend, its  already  overgrown  empire.  Its  navies 
were  on  every  sea,  and  its  armies  in  every  quarter 
of  the  Old  World  and  in  the  New.  Arms  was  the 
only  profession  worthy  of  a  gentleman ;  and  there 
was  scarcely  a  writer  of  any  eminence — certainly 
no  bard — of  the  age,  who,  if  he  were  not  in  orders, 
had  not  borne  arms,  at  some  period,  in  the  service 
of  his  country.  Cervantes,  who,  though  poor,  was 
born  of  an  ancient  family  (it  must  go  hard  with  a 
Castilian  who  cannot  make  out  a  pedigree  for  him- 


128  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

self) ,  had  a  full  measure  of  this  chivalrous  spirit, 
and  during  the  first  half  of  his  life  we  find  him  in 
the  midst  of  all  the  stormy  and  disastrous  scenes  of 
the  iron  trade  of  war.  His  love  of  the  military 
profession,  even  after  the  loss  of  his  hand,  or  of 
the  use  of  it,  for  it  is  uncertain  which,  is  sufficient 
proof  of  his  adventurous  spirit.  In  the  course  of 
his  checkered  career  he  visited  the  principal  coun- 
tries in  the  Mediterranean,  and  passed  five  years 
in  melancholy  captivity  at  Algiers.  The  time  was 
not  lost,  however,  which  furnished  his  keen  eye 
with  those  glowing  pictures  of  Moslem  luxury  and 
magnificence  with  which  he  has  em-iched  his  pages. 
After  a  life  of  unprecedented  hardship,  he  re- 
turned to  his  own  country,  covered  with  laurels  and 
scars,  with  very  little  money  in  his  pocket,  but  with 
plenty  of  that  experience  which,  regarding  him 
as  a  novelist,  might  be  considered  his  stock  in 
trade. 

The  poet  may  draw  from  the  depths  of  his  own 
fancy;  the  scholar,  from  his  library;  but  the 
proper  study  of  the  dramatic  writer,  whether  in 
verse  or  in  prose,  is  man, — man  as  he  exists  in 
society.  He  who  would  faithfully  depict  human 
character  cannot  study  it  too  nearly  and  variously. 
He  must  sit  down,  like  Scott,  by  the  fireside  of  the 
peasant  and  listen  to  the  "  auld  wife's  "  tale;  he 
must  preside,  with  Fielding,  at  a  petty  justice  ses- 
sions, or  share  with  some  Squire  Western  in  the 
glorious  hazards  of  a  fox-hunt;  he  must,  Hke 
Smollett  and  Cooper,  study  the  mysteries  of  the 
deep,  and  mingle  on  the  stormy  element  itself  with 
the  singular  beings  whose  destinies  he  is  to  describe ; 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  129 

or,  like  Cervantes,  he  must  wander  among  other 
races  and  in  other  climes,  before  his  pencil  can  give 
those  chameleon  touches  which  reflect  the  shifting, 
many-colored  hues  of  actual  life.  He  may,  in- 
deed, like  Rousseau,  if  it  were  possible  to  imagine 
another  Rousseau,  turn  his  thoughts  inward,  and 
draw  from  the  depths  of  his  own  soul;  but  he 
would  see  there  only  his  own  individual  passions 
and  prejudices,  and  the  portraits  he  might  sketch, 
however  various  in  subordinate  details,  would  be, 
in  their  characteristic  features,  only  the  reproduc- 
tion of  himself.  He  might,  in  short,  be  a  poet,  a 
philosopher,  but  not  a  painter  of  hf e  and  manners. 

Cervantes  had  ample  means  for  pursuing  the 
study  of  human  character,  after  his  return  to 
Spain,  in  the  active  life  which  engaged  him  in 
various  parts  of  the  country.  In  Andalusia  he 
might  have  found  the  models  of  the  sprightly  wit 
and  delicate  irony  with  which  he  has  seasoned  his 
fictions;  in  Seville,  in  particular,  he  was  brought 
in  contact  with  the  fry  of  small  sharpers  and  pick- 
pockets who  make  so  respectable  a  figure  in  his 
picaresco  novels;  and  in  La  IMancha  he  not  only 
found  the  geography  of  his  Don  Quixote,  but  that 
whimsical  contrast  of  pride  and  poverty  in  the  na- 
tives, which  has  furnished  the  outlines  of  many  a 
broad  caricature  to  the  comic  writers  of  Spain. 

During  all  this  while  he  had  made  himself 
known  only  by  his  pastoral  fiction,  the  "  Galatea," 
a  beautiful  specimen  of  an  insipid  class,  which, 
with  all  its  literary  merits,  afforded  no  scope  for 
the  power  of  depicting  human  character,  which  he 
possessed,    perhaps,    unknown   to   himself.      He 

Vol.  I.— 9 


130  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

wrote,  also,  a  good  number  of  plays,  all  of  which, 
except  two,  and  these  recovered  only  at  the  close 
of  the  last  century,  have  perished.  One  of  these, 
"  The  Siege  of  Numantia,"  displays  that  truth  of 
drawing  and  strength  of  color  which  mark  the  con- 
summate artist.  It  was  not  until  he  had  reached 
his  fifty-seventh  year  that  he  completed  the  First 
Part  of  his  great  work,  the  Don  Quixote.  The 
most  celebrated  novels,  unlike  most  works  of  im- 
agination, seem  to  have  been  the  production  of  the 
later  period  of  life.  Fielding  was  between  forty 
and  fifty  when  he  wrote  "  Tom  Jones;  "  Richard- 
son was  sixty,  or  very  near  it,  when  he  wrote 
"  Clarissa;  "  and  Scott  was  some  years  over  forty 
when  he  began  the  series  of  the  Waver  ley  novels. 
The  world,  the  school  of  the  novelist,  cannot  be 
run  through  like  the  terms  of  a  university,  and  the 
knowledge  of  its  manifold  varieties  must  be  the 
result  of  long  and  diligent  training. 

The  First  Part  of  the  Quixote  was  begun,  as 
the  author  tells  us,  in  a  prison,  to  which  he  had 
been  brought,  not  by  crime  or  debt,  but  by  some 
offence,  probably,  to  the  worthy  people  of  La 
Mancha.  It  is  not  the  only  work  of  genius  which 
has  struggled  into  being  in  such  unfavorable 
quarters.  The  "  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  the  most 
popular,  probably,  of  English  fictions,  was  com- 
posed under  similar  circumstances.  But  we  doubt 
if  such  brilliant  fancies  and  such  flashes  of  humor 
ever  lighted  up  the  walls  of  the  prison-house  be- 
fore the  time  of  Cervantes. 

The  First  Part  of  the  Don  Quixote  was  given 
to  the  public  in  1605.     Cervantes,  when  the  time 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  131 

arrived  for  launching  his  satire  against  the  old, 
deep-rooted  prejudices  of  his  countrymen,  prob- 
ably regarded  it,  as  well  he  might,  as  little  less  rash 
than  his  own  hero's  tilt  against  the  windmills.  He 
sought,  accordingly,  to  shield  himself  under  the 
cover  of  a  powerful  name,  and  asked  leave  to  dedi- 
cate the  book  to  a  Castilian  grandee,  the  Duke  de 
Be  jar.  The  duke,  it  is  said,  whether  ignorant  of 
the  design  or  doubting  the  success  of  the  work, 
would  have  declined,  but  Cervantes  urged  him 
first  to  peruse  a  single  chapter.  The  audience 
summoned  to  sit  in  judgment  were  so  delighted 
with  the  fii'st  pages  that  they  would  not  abandon 
the  novel  till  they  had  heard  the  whole  of  it.  The 
duke,  of  course,  without  farther  hesitation,  conde- 
scended to  allow  his  name  to  be  inserted  in  this 
passport  to  immortality. 

There  is  nothing  very  improbable  in  the  story. 
It  reminds  one  of  a  similar  experiment  by  St. 
Pierre,  who  submitted  his  manuscript  of  "  Paul 
and  Virginia  "  to  a  circle  of  French  litterateurs. 
Monsieur  and  Madame  Necker,  the  Abbe  Galiani, 
Thomas,  BufFon,  and  some  others,  all  wits  of  the 
first  water  in  the  metropoHs.  Hear  the  result,  in 
the  words  of  his  biographer,  or,  rather,  his  agree- 
able translator:  "At  first  the  author  was  heard  in 
silence;  by  degrees  the  attention  grew  languid; 
they  began  to  whisper,  to  gape,  and  listened  no 
longer.  M.  de  BufFon  looked  at  his  watch,  and 
called  for  his  horses;  those  near  the  door  slipped 
out;  Thomas  went  to  sleep;  M.  Necker  laughed 
to  see  the  ladies  weep ;  and  the  ladies,  ashamed  of 
their  tears,  did  not  dare  to  confess  that  they  had 


132  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

been  interested.  The  reading  being  finished, 
nothing  was  praised.  Madame  Necker  alone  criti- 
cised the  conversation  of  Paul  and  the  old  man. 
This  moral  appeared  to  her  tedious  and  common- 
place: it  broke  the  action,  chilled  the  reader,  and 
was  a  sort  of  glass  of  iced  water.  M.  de  St.  Pierre 
retired  in  a  state  of  indescribable  depression.  He 
regarded  what  had  passed  as  his  sentence  of  death. 
The  effect  of  his  work  on  an  audience  like  that  to 
which  he  had  read  it  left  him  no  hope  for  the 
future."  Yet  this  work  was  "  Paul  and  Virginia," 
one  of  the  most  popular  books  in  the  French  lan- 
guage.   So  much  for  criticism ! 

The  truth  seems  to  be,  that  the  judgment  of  no 
private  circle,  however  well  qualified  by  taste  and 
talent,  can  afford  a  sure  prognostic  of  that  of  the 
great  public.  If  the  manuscript  to  be  criticised 
is  our  friend's,  of  course  the  verdict  is  made  up  be- 
fore perusal.  If  some  great  man  modestly  sues 
for  our  approbation,  our  self-complacency  has 
been  too  much  flattered  for  us  to  withhold  it.  If 
it  be  a  little  man  (and  St.  Pierre  was  but  a  little 
man  at  that  time) ,  our  prejudices — the  prejudices 
of  poor  human  nature — will  be  very  apt  to  take  an 
opposite  direction.  Be  the  cause  what  it  may,  who- 
ever rests  his  hopes  of  public  favor  on  the  smiles  of 
a  coterie  runs  the  risk  of  finding  himself  very  un- 
pleasantly deceived.  Many  a  trim  bark  which  has 
flaunted  gayly  in  a  summer  lake  has  gone  to  pieces 
amid  the  billows  and  breakers  of  the  rude  ocean. 

The  prognostic  in  the  case  of  Cervantes,  how- 
ever, proved  more  correct.  His  work  produced  an 
instantaneous  effect  on  the  community.    He  had 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  188 

struck  a  note  which  found  an  echo  in  every  bosom. 
Four  editions  were  published  in  the  course  of  the 
first  year, — two  in  Madrid,  one  in  Valencia,  and 
another  at  Lisbon. 

This  success,  almost  unexampled  in  any  age, 
was  still  more  extraordinary  in  one  in  which 
the  reading  public  was  comparatively  limited. 
That  the  book  found  its  way  speedily  into  the  very 
highest  circles  in  the  kingdom  is  evident  from  the 
well-known  explanation  of  Philip  the  Third  when 
he  saw  a  student  laughing  immoderately  over  some 
volume:  "  The  man  must  be  either  out  of  his  wits, 
or  reading  Don  Quixote."  Notwithstanding,  its 
author  felt  none  of  that  sunshine  of  royal  favor 
which  would  have  been  so  grateful  in  his  neces- 
sities. 

The  period  was  that  of  the  golden  prime  of  Cas- 
tihan  literature.  But  the  monarch  on  the  throne, 
one  of  the  ill-starred  dynasty  of  Austria,  would 
have  been  better  suited  to  the  darkest  of  the  Mid- 
dle Ages.  His  hours,  divided  between  his  devo- 
tions and  his  debaucheries,  left  nothing  to  spare 
for  letters;  and  his  minister,  the  arrogant  Duke 
of  Lerma,  was  too  much  absorbed  by  his  own 
selfish  though  shallow  schemes  of  policy  to  trouble 
himself  with  romance-writers,  or  their  satirist. 
Cervantes,  however,  had  entered  on  a  career  which, 
as  he  intimates  in  some  of  his  verses,  might  lead  to 
fame,  but  not  to  fortune.  Happily,  he  did  not 
compromise  his  fame  by  precipitating  the  execu- 
tion of  his  works  from  motives  of  temporary 
profit.  It  was  not  till  several  years  after  the  pub- 
lication of  the  Don  Quixote  that  he  gave  to  the 


134  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

world  his  Exemplary  Novels,  as  he  called  them, — 
fictions  which,  differing  from  any  thing  before 
known,  not  only  in  the  Castilian,  but,  in  some  re- 
spects, in  any  other  literature,  gave  ample  scope 
to  his  dramatic  talent,  in  the  contrivance  of  situa- 
tions and  the  nice  dehneation  of  character.  These 
works,  whose  diction  was  uncommonly  rich  and 
attractive,  were  popular  from  the  first.  One  can- 
not but  be  led  to  inquire  why,  with  such  success 
as  an  author,  he  continued  to  be  so  straitened  in  his 
circumstances,  as  he  plainly  intimates  was  the  case 
more  than  once  in  his  writings.  From  the  Don 
Quixote,  notwithstanding  its  great  run,  he  prob- 
ably received  httle,  since  he  had  parted  with  the 
entire  copyright  before  publication,  when  the  work 
was  regarded  as  an  experiment  the  result  of  which 
was  quite  doubtful.  It  is  not  so  easy  to  explain  the 
difficulty  when  his  success  as  an  author  had  been 
so  completely  established.  Cervantes  intimates 
his  dissatisfaction,  in  more  than  one  place  in 
his  writings,  with  the  booksellers  themselves. 
"What,  sir!"  replies  an  author  introduced  into  his 
Don  Quixote,  "  would  you  have  me  sell  the  profit 
of  my  labor  to  a  bookseller  for  three  maravedis  a 
sheet?  for  that  is  the  most  they  will  bid,  nay,  and 
expect,  too,  I  should  thank  them  for  the  offer." 
This  burden  of  lamentation,  the  alleged  illiberality 
of  the  publisher  towards  the  poor  author,  is  as  old 
as  the  art  of  book-making  itself.  But  the  public 
receive  the  account  from  the  party  aggrieved  only. 
If  the  bookseller  reported  his  own  case,  we  should, 
no  doubt,  have  a  different  version.  If  Cervantes 
was  in  the  right,  the  trade  in  Castile  showed  a  de- 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  135 

gree  of  dexterity  in  their  proceedings  which  richly 
entitled  them  to  the  pillory.  In  one  of  his  tales 
we  find  a  certain  licentiate  complaining  of  "  the 
tricks  and  deceptions  they  put  upon  an  author 
when  they  buy  a  copyright  from  him;  and  still 
more,  the  manner  in  which  they  cheat  him  if  he 
prints  the  book  at  his  own  charges;  since  nothing 
is  more  common  than  for  them  to  agree  for  fifteen 
hundred,  and  have  privily,  perhaps,  as  many  as 
three  thousand  thrown  oif ,  one-half,  at  the  least, 
of  which  they  sell,  not  for  his  profit,  but  their 
own." 

The  writings  of  Cervantes  appear  to  have 
gained  him,  however,  two  substantial  friends  in 
Cabra,  the  Count  of  Lemos,  and  the  Archbishop 
of  Toledo,  of  the  ancient  family  of  Rojas;  and 
the  patronage  of  these  illustrious  individuals  has 
been  nobly  recompensed  by  having  their  names 
forever  associated  with  the  imperishable  produc- 
tions of  genius. 

There  was  still  one  kind  of  patronage  wanting 
in  this  early  age,  that  of  a  great,  enlightened  com- 
munity,— the  only  patronage  which  can  be  re- 
ceived without  some  sense  of  degradation  by  a 
generous  mind.  There  was,  indeed,  one  golden 
channel  of  public  favor,  and  that  was  the  theatre. 
The  drama  has  usually  flourished  most  at  the 
period  when  a  nation  is  beginning  to  taste  the 
sweets  of  literary  culture.  Such  was  the  early 
part  of  the  seventeenth  century  in  Europe;  the 
age  of  Shakspeare,  Johnson,  and  Fletcher  in 
England;  of  Ariosto,  Machiavelli,  and  the  wits 
who  first  successfully  wooed  the  comic  muse  of 


136  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

Italy;  of  the  great  Corneille,  some  years  later,  in 
France;  and  of  that  miracle,  or,  rather,  "mon- 
ster of  nature,"  as  Cervantes  styled  him.  Lope  de 
Vega  in  Spain.  Theatrical  exhibitions  are  a  com- 
bination of  the  material  with  the  intellectual,  at 
which  the  ordinary  spectator  derives  less  pleasure, 
probably,  from  the  beautiful  creations  of  the  poet 
than  from  the  scenic  decorations,  music,  and  other 
accessories  which  address  themselves  to  the  senses. 
The  fondness  for  spectacle  is  characteristic  of  an 
early  period  of  society,  and  the  theatre  is  the  most 
brilhant  of  pageants.  With  the  progress  of  edu- 
cation and  refinement,  men  become  less  open  to, 
or,  at  least,  less  dependent  on,  the  pleasures  of 
sense,  and  seek  their  enjoyment  in  more  elevated 
and  purer  sources.    Thus  it  is  that,  instead  of 

"  Sweating  in  the  crowded  theatre,  squeezed 
And  bored  with  elbow-points  through  both  our  sides," 

as  the  sad  minstrel  of  nature  sings,  we  sit  quietly 
at  home,  enjoying  the  pleasures  of  fiction  around 
our  own  firesides,  and  the  poem  or  the  novel  takes 
the  place  of  the  acted  drama.  The  decline  of 
dramatic  writing  may  justly  be  lamented  as  that 
of  one  of  the  most  beautiful  varieties  in  the  gar- 
den of  literature.  But  it  must  be  admitted  to  be 
both  a  symptom  and  a  necessary  consequence  of 
the  advance  of  civilization. 

The  popularity  of  the  stage,  at  the  period  of 
which  we  are  speaking,  in  Spain,  was  greatly  aug- 
mented by  the  personal  influence  and  reputation 
of  Lope  de  Vega,  the  idol  of  his  countrymen,  who 
threw  off  the  various  inventions  of  his  genius  with 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  137 

a  rapidity  and  profusion  that  almost  staggers 
credibility.  It  is  impossible  to  state  the  results  of 
his  labors  in  any  form  that  will  not  powerfully 
strike  the  imagination.  Thus,  he  has  left  twenty- 
one  million  three  hundred  thousand  verses  in  print, 
besides  a  mass  of  manuscript.  He  furnished  the 
theatre,  according  to  the  statement  of  his  intimate 
friend  Montalvan,  with  eighteen  hundred  regular 
plays,  and  four  hundred  autos  of  religious  dramas, 
— aU  acted.  He  composed,  according  to  his  own 
statement,  more  than  one  hundred  comedies  in  the 
almost  incredible  space  of  twenty-four  hours  each, 
and  a  comedy  averaged  between  two  and  three 
thousand  verses,  a  great  part  of  them  rhymed  and 
interspersed  with  sonnets  and  other  more  difficult 
forms  of  versification.  He  lived  seventy-two 
years ;  and  supposing  him  to  have  employed  fifty 
of  that  period  in  composition,  although  he  filled  a 
variety  of  engrossing  vocations  during  that  time, 
he  must  have  averaged  a  play  a  week,  to  say 
nothing  of  twenty-one  volumes  quarto  of  miscella- 
neous works,  including  five  epics,  -wTitten  in  his 
leisure  moments,  and  all  now  in  print ! 

The  only  achievements  we  can  recall  in  literary 
history  bearing  any  resemblance  to,  though  falling 
far  short  of  this,  are  those  of  our  illustrious  con- 
temporary Sir  Walter  Scott.  The  complete  edi- 
tion of  his  works,  recently  advertised  by  Murray, 
with  the  addition  of  two  volumes  of  which  Murray 
has  not  the  copyright,  probably  contains  ninety 
volumes  small  octavo.  To  these  should  farther  be 
added  a  large  supply  of  matter  for  the  Edinburgh 
Annual  Register,  as  well  as  other  anonymous  con- 


138  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

tributions.  Of  these,  forty-eight  volumes  of 
novels  and  twenty-one  of  history  and  biography 
were  produced  between  1814  and  1831,  or  in  seven- 
teen years.  These  would  give  an  average  of  four 
volumes  a  year,  or  one  for  every  three  months 
during  the  whole  of  that  period,  to  which  must  be 
added  twenty-one  volumes  of  poetry  and  prose 
previously  published.  The  mere  mechanical  exe- 
cution of  so  much  work,  both  in  his  case  and  Lope 
de  Vega's,  would  seem  to  be  scarce  possible  in  the 
limits  assigned.  Scott,  too,  was  as  variously  occu- 
pied in  other  ways  as  his  Spanish  rival,  and  prob- 
ably, from  the  social  hospitality  of  his  life,  spent  a 
much  larger  portion  of  his  time  in  no  literary  occu- 
pation at  aU. 

Notwithstanding  we  have  amused  ourselves,  at 
the  expense  of  the  reader's  patience  perhaps,  with 
these  calculations,  this  certainly  is  not  the  stand- 
ard by  which  we  should  recommend  to  estimate 
works  of  genius.  Wit  is  not  to  be  measured,  like 
broadcloth,  by  the  yard.  Easy  writing,  as  the 
adage  says,  and  as  we  all  know,  is  apt  to  be  very 
hard  reading.  This  brings  to  our  recollection  a 
conversation,  in  the  presence  of  Captain  Basil 
Hall,  in  which,  some  allusion  having  been  made  to 
the  astonishing  amount  of  Scott's  daily  composi- 
tion, the  literary  argonaut  remarked,  "  There  was 
nothing  astonishing  in  all  that,  and  that  he  did 
as  much  himself  nearly  every  day  before  break- 
fast." Some  one  of  the  company  unkindly  asked 
"  whether  he  thought  the  quality  was  the  same." 
It  is  the  quality,  undoubtedly,  which  makes  the 
difference.     And  in  this  view  Lope  de  Vega's 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  139 

miracles  lose  much  of  their  effect.  Of  all  his  mul- 
titudinous dramas,  one  or  two  only  retain  posses- 
sion of  the  stage,  and  few,  very  few,  are  now  even 
read.  His  facility  of  composition  was  like  that  of 
an  Itahan  improvisatore,  whose  fertile  fancy 
easily  clothes  itself  in  verse,  in  language  the  vowel 
terminations  of  which  afford  such  a  plenitude  of 
rhymes.  The  Castilian  presents  even  greater 
facihties  for  this  than  the  Italian.  Lope  de  Vega 
was  an  improvisatore. 

With  all  his  negligences  and  defects,  however, 
Lope's  interesting  intrigues,  easy,  sprightly  dia- 
logue, infinite  variety  of  inventions,  and  the 
breathless  rapidity  with  which  they  followed  one 
another,  so  dazzled  and  bewildered  the  imagina- 
tion that  he  completely  controlled  the  public,  and 
became,  in  the  words  of  Cervantes,  "  sole  monarch 
of  the  stage."  The  public  repaid  him  with  such 
substantial  gratitude  as  has  never  been  shown, 
probably,  to  any  other  of  its  favorites.  His  for- 
tune at  one  time,  although  he  was  careless  of  his 
expenses,  amounted  to  one  hundred  thousand 
ducats,  equal,  probably,  to  between  seven  and 
eight  hundred  thousand  dollars  of  the  present  day. 
In  the  same  street  in  which  dwelt  this  spoiled  child 
of  fortune,  who,  amid  the  caresses  of  the  great  and 
the  lavish  smiles  of  the  public,  could  complain  that 
his  merits  were  neglected,  lived  Cervantes,  strug- 
gling under  adversity,  or  at  least  earning  a  pain- 
ful subsistence  by  the  labors  of  his  immortal  pen. 
What  a  contrast  do  these  pictures  present  to  the 
imagination!  If  the  suffrages  of  a  coterie,  as  we 
have  said,  afford  no  warrant  for  those  of  the  pub- 


140  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

lie,  the  example  before  us  proves  that  the  award  of 
one's  contemporaries  is  quite  as  likely  to  be  set 
aside  by  posterity.  Lope  de  Vega,  who  gave  his 
name  to  his  age,  has  now  fallen  into  neglect  even 
among  his  countrymen,  while  the  fame  of  Cer- 
vantes, gathering  strength  with  time,  has  become 
the  pride  of  his  own  nation,  as  his  works  still  con- 
tinue to  be  the  delight  of  the  whole  civilized  world. 
However  stinted  may  have  been  the  recompense 
of  his  deserts  at  home,  it  is  gratifying  to  observe 
how  widely  his  fame  was  diffused  in  his  own  life- 
time, and  that  in  foreign  countries,  at  least,  he  en- 
joyed the  full  consideration  to  which  he  was 
entitled.  An  interesting  anecdote  illustrating  this 
is  recorded,  which,  as  we  have  never  seen  it  in 
English,  we  will  lay  before  the  reader.  On  occa- 
sion of  a  visit  made  by  the  Archbishop  of  Toledo 
to  the  French  ambassador  resident  at  Madrid,  the 
prelate's  suite  fell  into  conversation  with  the  at- 
tendants of  the  minister,  in  the  course  of  which 
Cervantes  was  mentioned.  The  French  gentle- 
men expressed  their  unqualified  admiration  of  his 
writings,  specifying  the  Galatea,  Don  Quixote, 
and  the  Novels,  which,  they  said,  were  read  in  all 
the  countries  round,  and  in  France  particularly, 
where  there  were  some  who  might  be  said  to  know 
them  actually  by  heart.  They  intimated  their  de- 
sire to  become  personally  acquainted  with  so  emi- 
nent a  man,  and  asked  many  questions  respecting 
his  present  occupations,  his  circumstances,  and 
way  of  life.  To  all  this  the  Castilians  could  only 
reply  that  he  had  borne  arms  in  the  service  of  his 
country,  and  was  now  old  and  poor.     "What!" 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  141 

exclaimed  one  of  the  strangers,  "  is  Senor  Cer- 
vantes not  in  good  circumstances  ?  Why  is  he  not 
maintained,  then,  out  of  the  pubhc  treasury? " 
"  Heaven  forbid,"  rejoined  another,  "  that  his 
necessities  should  be  ever  relieved,  if  it  is  these 
which  make  him  write,  since  it  is  his  poverty  that 
makes  the  world  rich." 

There  are  other  evidences,  though  not  of  so 
pleasing  a  character,  of  the  eminence  which  he  had 
reached  at  home,  in  the  jealousy  and  ill  will  of  his 
brother  poets.  The  Castilian  poets  of  that  day 
seem  to  have  possessed  a  full  measure  of  that  irri- 
tabihty  which  has  been  laid  at  the  door  of  all  their 
tribe  since  the  days  of  Horace;  and  the  freedom 
of  Cervantes's  literary  criticisms  in  his  Don 
Quixote  and  other  writings,  though  never  personal 
in  their  character,  brought  down  on  his  head  a 
storm  of  arrows,  some  of  which,  if  not  sent  with 
much  force,  were  at  least  well  steeped  in  venom. 
Lope  de  Vega  is  even  said  to  have  appeared 
among  the  assailants,  and  a  sonnet,  still  preserved, 
is  currently  imputed  to  him,  in  which,  after  much 
eulogy  on  himself,  he  predicts  that  the  works  of 
his  rival  will  find  their  way  into  the  kennel.  But 
the  author  of  this  bad  prophecy  and  worse  poetry 
could  never  have  been  the  great  Lope,  who  showed 
on  all  occasions  a  generous  spirit,  and  whose  liter- 
ary success  must  have  made  such  an  assault  un- 
necessary and  in  the  highest  degree  unmanly.  On 
the  contrary,  we  have  evidence  of  a  very  different 
feeling,  in  the  homage  which  he  renders  to  the 
merits  of  his  illustrious  contemporary  in  more  than 
one  passage  of  his  acknowledged  works,  especially 


142  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

in  his  "  Laurel  de  Apolo,"  in  which  he  concludes 
his  poetical  panegyric  with  the  following  touching 
conceit : 

"  Porque  se  diga  que  una  mano  herida 
Pudo  dar  d  su  dueno  eterna  vida." 

This  poem  was  published  by  Lope  in  1630, 
fourteen  years  after  the  death  of  his  rival;  not- 
withstanding, Mr.  Lockhart  informs  his  readers, 
in  his  biographical  preface  to  the  Don  Quixote, 
that  "as  Lope  de  Vega  was  dead  (1615),  there 
was  no  one  to  divide  with  Cervantes  the  literary 
empire  of  his  country." 

In  the  dedication  of  his  ill-fated  comedies,  1615 
(for  Cervantes,  like  most  other  celebrated  novel- 
ists, found  it  difficult  to  concentrate  his  expansive 
vein  within  the  compass  of  dramatic  rules),  the 
public  was  informed  that  "  Don  Quixote  was  al- 
ready booted  "  and  preparing  for  another  sally.  It 
may  seem  strange  that  the  author,  considering  the 
great  popularity  of  his  hero,  had  not  sent  him  on  his 
adventures  before.  But  he  had  probably  regarded 
them  as  already  terminated ;  and  he  had  good  rea- 
son to  do  so,  since  every  incident  in  the  First  Part, 
as  it  has  been  styled  only  since  the  publication  of 
the  Second,  is  complete  in  itself,  and  the  Don,  al- 
though not  actually  killed  on  the  stage,  is  noticed 
as  dead,  and  his  epitaph  transcribed  for  the  reader. 
However  this  may  be,  the  immediate  execution  of 
his  purpose,  so  long  delayed,  was  precipitated  by 
an  event  equally  unwelcome  and  unexpected. 
This  was  the  continuation  of  his  work  by  another 
hand. 

The  author's  name,  his  nom  de  guerre^  was 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  143 

Avellaneda,  a  native  of  Tordesillas.  Adopting  the 
original  idea  of  Cervantes,  he  goes  forward  with 
the  same  characters,  through  similar  scenes  of 
comic  extravagance,  in  the  course  of  which  he 
perpetrates  sundry  plagiarisms  from  the  First 
Part,  and  has  some  incidents  so  much  resembling 
those  in  the  Second  Part,  already  written  by 
Cervantes,  that  it  has  been  supposed  he  must 
have  had  access  to  his  manuscript.  It  is  more 
probable,  as  the  resemblance  is  but  general,  that  he 
obtained  his  knowledge  through  hints  which  may 
have  fallen  in  conversation  from  Cervantes  in  the 
progress  of  his  own  work.  The  spurious  continua- 
tion had  some  little  merit,  and  attracted,  probably, 
some  interest,  as  any  work  conducted  under  so 
popular  a  name  could  not  have  failed  to  do.  It 
was,  however,  on  the  whole,  a  vulgar  performance, 
thickly  sprinkled  with  such  gross  scurrility  and  in- 
decency as  was  too  strong  even  for  the  palate  of 
that  not  very  fastidious  age.  The  public  feeling 
may  be  gathered  from  the  fact  that  the  author  did 
not  dare  to  depart  from  his  incognito  and  claim 
the  honors  of  a  triumph.  The  most  diligent  in- 
quiries have  established  nothing  farther  than  that 
he  was  an  Aragonese,  judging  from  his  diction, 
and,  from  the  complexion  of  certain  passages  in 
the  work,  probably  an  ecclesiastic,  and  one  of  the 
swarm  of  small  dramatists  who  felt  themselves 
rudely  handled  by  the  criticism  of  Cervantes.  The 
work  was  subsequently  translated,  or  rather  para- 
phrased, by  Le  Sage,  who  has  more  than  once 
given  a  substantial  value  to  gems  of  little  price  in 
Castilian  literature  by  the  brilliancy  of  his  setting. 


144  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

The  original  work  of  Avellaneda,  always  deriving 
an  interest  from  the  circumstances  of  its  produc- 
tion, has  been  reprinted  in  the  present  century,  and 
is  not  difficult  to  be  met  with.  To  have  thus  coolly 
invaded  an  author's  own  property,  to  have  filched 
from  him  the  splendid  though  unfinished  creations 
of  his  genius  before  his  own  face,  and  while,  as 
was  publicly  known,  he  was  in  the  very  process  of 
completing  them,  must  be  admitted  to  be  an  act  of 
unblushing  effrontery  not  surpassed  in  the  annals 
of  literature. 

Cervantes  was  much  annoyed,  it  appears,  by  the 
circumstance.  The  continuation  of  Avellaneda 
reached  him,  probably,  when  on  the  fifty-ninth 
chapter  of  the  Second  Part.  At  least,  from  that 
time  he  begins  to  discharge  his  gall  on  the  head  of 
the  offender,  who,  it  should  be  added,  had  con- 
summated his  impudence  by  sneering,  in  his  intro- 
duction, at  the  qualifications  of  Cervantes.  The 
best  retort  of  the  latter,  however,  was  the  publica- 
tion of  his  own  book,  which  followed  at  the  close 
of  1615. 

The  English  novelist  Richardson  experienced  a 
treatment  not  unlike  that  of  the  Castilian.  His 
popular  story  of  Pamela  was  continued  by  another 
and  very  inferior  hand,  under  the  title  of  "  Pamela 
in  High  Life."  The  circumstance  prompted 
Richardson  to  undertake  the  continuation  himself ; 
and  it  turned  out,  like  most  others,  a  decided  fail- 
ure. Indeed,  a  skilful  continuation  seems  to  be 
the  most  difficult  work  of  art.  The  first  effort  of 
the  author  breaks,  as  it  were,  unexpectedly  on  the 
public,  taking  their  judgment  by  surprise,  and  by 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  145 

its  very  success  creating  a  standard  by  which  the 
author  himself  is  subsequently  to  be  tried.  Before, 
he  was  compared  with  others ;  he  is  now  to  be  com- 
pared with  himself.  The  public  expectation  has 
been  raised.  A  degree  of  excellence  which  might 
have  found  favor  at  first  will  now  scarcely  be 
tolerated.  It  will  not  even  suffice  for  him  to  main- 
tain his  own  level.  He  must  rise  above  himself. 
The  reader,  in  the  mean  while,  has  naturally  filled 
up  the  blank,  and  insensibly  conducted  the  charac- 
ters and  the  story  to  a  termination  in  his  o^vn  way. 
As  the  reality  seldom  keeps  pace  with  the  ideal, 
the  author's  execution  will  hardly  come  up  to  the 
imagination  of  his  readers;  at  any  rate,  it  will 
differ  from  them,  and  so  far  be  displeasing.  We 
experience  something  of  this  disappointment  in 
the  dramas  borrowed  from  popular  novels,  where 
the  development  of  the  characters  by  the  dramatic 
author,  and  the  new  direction  given  to  the  original 
story  in  his  hands,  rarely  fail  to  offend  the  taste 
and  preconceived  ideas  of  the  spectator.  To  feel 
the  force  of  this,  it  is  only  necessary  to  see  the  Guy 
Mannering,  Rob  Roy,  and  other  plays  dramatized 
from  the  Waverley  novels. 

Some  part  of  the  failure  of  such  continuations 
is,  no  doubt,  fairly  chargeable,  in  most  instances, 
on  the  author  himself,  who  goes  to  his  new  task 
Avith  little  of  his  primitive  buoyancy  and  vigor. 
He  no  longer  feels  the  same  interest  in  his  own 
labors,  which,  losing  their  freshness,  have  become 
as  familiar  to  his  imagination  as  a  thrice-told  tale. 
The  new  composition  has,  of  course,  a  different 
complexion  from  the  former,  cold,  stiff,  and  dis- 

VOL.    I.— 10 


146  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

jointed,  like  a  bronze  statue  whose  parts  have  been 
separately  put  together,  instead  of  being  cast  in 
one  mould  when  the  whole  metal  was  in  a  state  of 
fusion. 

The  continuation  of  Cervantes  forms  a  splendid 
exception  to  the  general  rule.  The  popularity  of 
his  First  Part  had  drawn  forth  abundance  of  criti- 
cism, and  he  availed  himself  of  it  to  correct  some 
material  blemishes  in  the  design  of  the  Second, 
while  an  assiduous  culture  of  the  Castilian  enabled 
him  to  enrich  his  style  with  greater  variety  and 
beauty. 

He  had  now  reached  the  zenith  of  his  fame,  and 
the  profits  of  his  continuation  may  have  relieved 
the  pecuniary  embarrassments  under  which  he  had 
struggled.  But  he  was  not  long  to  enjoy  his 
triumph.  Before  his  death,  which  took  place  in 
the  following  year,  he  completed  his  romance  of 
"  Persiles  and  Sigismunda,"  the  dedication  to 
which,  written  a  few  days  before  his  death,  is 
strongly  characteristic  of  its  writer.  It  is  ad- 
dressed to  his  old  patron,  the  Conde  de  Lemos, 
then  absent  from  the  country.  After  saying,  in 
the  words  of  the  old  Spanish  proverb,  that  he  had 
"  one  foot  in  the  stirrup/^  in  allusion  to  the  dis- 
tant journey  on  which  he  was  soon  to  set  out,  he 
adds,  "  Yesterday  I  received  the  extreme  unction ; 
but,  now  that  the  shadows  of  death  are  closing 
around  me,  I  still  cling  to  life,  from  the  love  of  it, 
as  well  as  from  the  desire  to  behold  you  again. 
But  if  it  is  decreed  otherwise  (and  the  will  of 
Heaven  be  done) ,  your  excellency  will  at  least  feel 
assured  there  was  one  person  whose  wish  to  serve 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  147 

you  was  greater  than  the  love  of  Hfe  itself." 
After  these  reminiscences  of  his  benefactor,  he 
expresses  his  own  purpose,  should  life  be  spared, 
to  complete  several  works  he  had  already  begun. 
Such  were  the  last  words  of  this  illustrious  man; 
breathing  the  same  generous  sensibility,  the  same 
ardent  love  of  letters  and  beautiful  serenity  of 
temper  which  distinguished  him  through  life.  He 
died  a  few  days  after,  on  the  23d  of  April,  1616. 
His  remains  were  laid,  without  funeral  pomp,  in 
the  monastery  of  the  Holy  Trinity  at  Madrid.* 
No  memorial  points  out  the  spot  to  the  eye  of  the 
traveller,  nor  is  it  known  at  this  day.  And,  while 
many  a  costly  construction  has  been  piled  on  the 
ashes  of  the  little  great,  to  the  shame  of  Spain  be 
it  spoken,  no  monument  has  yet  been  erected  in 
honor  of  the  greatest  genius  she  has  produced. 
He  has  built,  however,  a  monument  for  himself 
more  durable  than  brass  or  sculptured  marble. 

Don  Quixote  is  too  familiar  to  the  reader  to 
require  any  analysis;  but  we  will  enlarge  on  a 
few  circumstances  attending  its  composition  but 
little  known  to  the  English  scholar,  which  may 
enable  him  to  form  a  better  judgment  for  him- 
self. The  age  of  chivalry,  as  depicted  in  ro- 
mances, could  never,  of  course,  have  had  any  real 
existence;  but  the  sentiments  which  are  described 
as  animating  that  age  have  been  found  more  or 

*  He  was  buried  in  the  Convent  of  the  Nuns  of  the  Trinity. — 
Ticknor's  Spanish  Literature,  II.  p.  132.  Of  this  community  his 
daughter  Isabel  was  a  professed  member.  When  in  1633  the  nuns 
moved  to  a  new  site,  his  bones  were  cast  into  a  common  ossuary,  and 
so  lost.  A  bronze  statue  of  Cervantes,  the  work  of  Antonio  Sola, 
stands  in  the  Plaza  de  las  Cortes,  in  Madrid. — M. 


148  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

less  operative  in  different  countries  and  different 
periods  of  society.  In  Spain,  especially,  this  in- 
fluence is  to  be  discerned  from  a  very  early  date. 
Its  inhabitants  may  be  said  to  have  lived  in  a 
romantic  atmosphere,  in  which  all  the  extrava- 
gances of  chivalry  were  nourished  by  their  pecuHar 
situation.  Their  hostile  relations  with  the  Moslem 
kept  alive  the  full  glow  of  religious  and  patriotic 
feeling.  Their  history  is  one  interminable  cru- 
sade. An  enemy  always  on  the  borders  invited 
perpetual  displays  of  personal  daring  and  adven- 
ture. The  refinement  and  magnificence  of  the 
Spanish  Arabs  throw  a  lustre  over  these  contests 
such  as  could  not  be  reflected  from  the  rude  skir- 
mishes with  their  Christian  neighbors.  Lofty  sen- 
timents, embellished  by  the  softer  refinements  of 
courtesy,  were  blended  in  the  martial  bosom  of  the 
Spaniard,  and  Spain  became  emphaticaUy  the 
land  of  romantic  chivalry. 

The  very  laws  themselves,  conceived  in  this 
spirit,  contributed  greatly  to  foster  it.  The 
ancient  code  of  Alfonso  the  Tenth,  in  the  thir- 
teenth century,  after  many  minute  regulations  for 
the  deportment  of  the  good  knight,  enjoins  on  him 
to  "  invoke  the  name  of  his  mistress  in  the  fight, 
that  it  may  infuse  new  ardor  into  his  soul  and  pre- 
serve him  from  the  commission  of  unknightly  ac- 
tions." Such  laws  were  not  a  dead  letter.  The 
history  of  Spain  shows  that  the  sentiment  of 
romantic  gallantry  penetrated  the  nation  more 
deeply  and  continued  longer  than  in  any  other 
quarter  of  Christendom. 

Foreign  chroniclers,  as  weU  as  domestic,  of  the 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  149 

fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries,  notice  the  fre- 
quent appearance  of  Spanish  knights  in  different 
courts  of  Europe,  whither  they  had  travelled,  in 
the  language  of  an  old  writer,  "  to  seek  honor 
and  reverence  "  by  their  feats  of  arms.  In  the  Pas- 
ton  Letters,*  WTitten  in  the  time  of  Henry  the 
Sixth  of  England,  we  find  a  notice  of  a  Castilian 
knight  who  presented  himself  before  the  court, 
and,  with  his  mistress's  favor  around  his  arm,  chal- 
lenged the  English  cavaliers  "  to  run  a  course  of 
sharp  spears  with  him  for  his  sovereign  lady's 
sake."  Pulgar,  a  Spanish  chronicler  of  the  close 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  speaks  of  this  roving 
knight-errantry  as  a  thing  of  familiar  occurrence 
among  the  young  cavaliers  of  his  day;  and 
Oviedo,  who  lived  somewhat  later,  notices  the 
necessity  under  which  every  true  knight  found 
himself  of  being  in  love,  or  feigning  to  he  so,  in 
order  to  give  a  suitable  lustre  and  incentive  to  his 
achievements.  But  the  most  singular  proof  of  the 
extravagant  pitch  to  which  these  romantic  feelings 
were  carried  in  Spain  occurs  in  the  account  of  the 
jousts  appended  to  the  fine  old  chronicle  of  Alvaro 
de  Luna,  published  by  the  Academy  in  1784<.  The 
principal  champion  was  named  Sueno  de  Que- 
nones,  who,  with  nine  companions  in  arms,  de- 
fended a  pass  at  Orbigo,  not  far  from  the  shrine 
of  Compostella,  against  all  comers,  in  the  presence 
of  King  John  the  Second  and  his  court.  The 
object  of  this  passage  of  arms,  as  it  was  called, 

*  The  Paston  Letters,  written  during  the  reigns  of  Henry  VI., 
Edward  IV.,  and  Richard  III.,  are  invaluable  for  the  light  they 
throw  upon  the  social  conditions  of  England  in  the  fifteenth  century. 
— M. 


150  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

was  to  release  the  knight  from  the  obUgation  im- 
posed on  him  by  his  mistress  of  publicly  wearing 
an  iron  collar  round  his  neck  every  Thursday. 
The  jousts  continued  for  thirty  days,  and  the 
doughty  champions  fought  without  shield  or  tar- 
get, with  weapons  bearing  points  of  Milan  steel. 
Six  hundred  and  twenty-seven  encounters  took 
place,  and  one  hundred  and  sixty-six  lances  were 
broken  when  the  emprise  was  declared  to  be  fairly 
achieved.  The  whole  affair  is  narrated,  with  be- 
coming gravity,  by  an  eye-witness,  and  the  reader 
may  fancy  himself  perusing  the  adventures  of  a 
Launcelot  or  an  Amadis.  The  particulars  of  this 
tourney  are  detailed  at  length  in  Mills's  Chivalry 
(vol.  ii.  chap,  v.),  where,  however,  the  author  has 
defrauded  the  successful  champions  of  their  full 
honors  by  incorrectly  reporting  the  number  of 
lances  broken  as  only  sixty -six. 

The  taste  for  these  romantic  extravagances 
naturally  fostered  a  corresponding  taste  for  the 
perusal  of  tales  of  chivalry.  Indeed,  they  acted 
reciprocally  on  each  other.  These  chimerical  le- 
gends had  once,  also,  beguiled  the  long  evenings  of 
our  Norman  ancestors,  but,  in  the  progress  of 
civilization,  had  gradually  given  way  to  other  and 
more  natural  forms  of  composition.  They  still 
maintained  their  ground  in  Italy,  whither  they  had 
passed  later,  and  where  they  were  consecrated  by 
the  hand  of  genius.  But  Italy  was  not  the  true 
soil  of  chivalry,  and  the  inimitable  fictions  of 
Bojardo,  Pulci,  and  Ariosto  were  composed  with 
that  lurking  smile  of  half -suppressed  mirth  which, 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  151 

far  from  a  serious  tone,  could  raise  only  a  corre- 
sponding smile  of  incredulity  in  the  reader. 

In  Spain,  however,  the  marvels  of  romance  were 
all  taken  in  perfect  good  faith.  Not  that  they 
were  received  as  literally  true ;  but  the  reader  sur- 
rendered himself  up  to  the  illusion,  and  was 
moved  to  admiration  by  the  recital  of  deeds  which, 
viewed  in  any  other  light  than  as  a  wild  frolic  of 
imagination,  would  be  supremely  ridiculous;  for 
these  tales  had  not  the  merit  of  a  seductive  style 
and  melodious  versification  to  relieve  them.  They 
were,  for  the  most  part,  an  ill-digested  mass  of  in- 
congruities, in  which  there  was  as  little  keeping 
and  probability  in  the  characters  as  in  the  inci- 
dents, while  the  whole  was  told  in  that  stilted 
"  Hercles'  vein  "  and  with  that  licentiousness  of 
allusion  and  imagery  which  could  not  fail  to  de- 
bauch both  the  taste  and  the  morals  of  the  youth- 
ful reader.  The  mind,  famiharized  with  these 
monstrous,  over-colored  pictures,  lost  all  relish  for 
the  chaste  and  sober  productions  of  art.  The 
love  of  the  gigantic  and  the  marvellous  indisposed 
the  reader  for  the  simple  delineations  of  truth  in 
real  history.  The  feelings  expressed  by  a  sensible 
Spaniard  of  the  sixteenth  century,  the  anonymous 
author  of  the  "  Dialogo  de  las  Lenguas,"  probably 
represent  those  of  many  of  his  contemporaries. 
"  Ten  of  the  best  years  of  my  life,"  says  he,  "  were 
spent  no  more  profitably  than  in  devouring  these 
lies,  which  I  did  even  while  eating  my  meals ;  and 
the  consequence  of  this  depraved  appetite  was, 
that  if  I  took  in  hand  any  true  book  of  history,  or 


152  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

one  that  passed  for  such,  I  was  unable  to  wade 
through  it." 

The  influence  of  this  meretricious  taste  was 
nearly  as  fatal  on  the  historian  himself  as  on  his 
readers,  since  he  felt  compelled  to  minister  to  the 
public  appetite  such  a  mixture  of  the  marvellous 
in  all  his  narrations  as  materially  discredited  the 
veracity  of  his  writings.  Every  hero  became  a 
demigod,  who  put  the  labors  of  Hercules  to 
shame;  and  every  monk  or  old  hermit  was  con- 
verted into  a  saint,  who  wrought  more  miracles, 
before  and  after  death,  than  would  have  sufficed 
to  canonize  a  monastery.  The  fabulous  ages  of 
Greece  are  scarcely  more  fabulous  than  the  close 
of  the  Middle  Ages  in  Spanish  history,  which  com- 
pares very  discreditably,  in  this  particular,  with 
similar  periods  in  most  European  countries.  The 
confusion  of  fact  and  fiction  continues  to  a  very 
late  age;  and  as  one  gropes  his  way  through  the 
twilight  of  tradition  he  is  at  a  loss  whether  the  dim 
objects  are  men  or  shadows.  The  most  splendid 
names  in  Castilian  annals — names  incorporated 
with  the  glorious  achievements  of  the  land,  and 
embalmed  alike  in  the  page  of  the  chronicler  and 
the  song  of  the  minstrel — names  associated  with 
the  most  stirring,  patriotic  recollections — are  now 
found  to  have  been  the  mere  coinage  of  fancy. 
There  seems  to  be  no  more  reason  for  believing  in 
the  real  existence  of  Bernardo  del  Carpio,  of 
whom  so  much  has  been  said  and  sung,  than  in  that 
of  Charlemagne's  paladins,  or  of  the  Knights  of 
the  Round  Table.  Even  the  Cid,  the  national  hero 
of  Spain,  is  contended,  by  some  of  the  shrewdest 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  153 

native  critics  of  our  own  times,  to  be  an  imaginary 
being ;  and  it  is  certain  that  the  splendid  fabric  of 
liis  exploits,  familiar  as  household  words  to  every 
Spaniard,  has  crumbled  to  pieces  under  the  rude 
touch  of  modern  criticism.  These  heroes,  it  is 
true,  flourished  before  the  introduction  of  ro- 
mances of  chivalry;  but  the  legends  of  their 
prowess  have  been  multiplied  beyond  bounds,  in 
consequence  of  the  taste  created  by  these  romances, 
and  an  easy  faith  accorded  to  them  at  the  same 
time,  such  as  would  never  have  been  conceded  in 
any  other  civilized  nation.  In  short,  the  elements 
of  truth  and  falsehood  became  so  blended  that 
history  was  converted  into  romance,  and  romance 
received  the  credit  due  onty  to  history. 

These  mischievous  consequences  drew  down  the 
animadversions  of  thinking  men,  and  at  length 
provoked  the  interference  of  government  itself.  In 
1543,  Charles  the  Fifth,  by  an  edict,  prohibited 
books  of  chivalry  from  being  imported  into  his 
American  colonies,  or  being  printed  or  even  read 
there.  The  legislation  for  America  proceeded 
from  the  crown  alone,  which  had  always  regarded 
the  New  World  as  its  own  exclusive  property.  In 
1555,  however,  the  Cortes  of  the  kingdom  pre- 
sented a  petition  (which  requires  only  the  royal 
signature  to  become  at  once  the  law ) ,  setting  forth 
the  manifold  evils  resulting  from  these  romances. 
There  is  an  air  at  once  both  of  simplicity  and 
solemnity  in  the  language  of  this  instrument 
which  may  amuse  the  reader:  "  Moreover,  we  say 
that  it  is  very  notorious  what  mischief  has  been 
done  to  young  men  and  maidens,  and  other  per- 


154  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

sons,  by  the  perusal  of  books  full  of  lies  and  vani- 
ties, like  Amadis,  and  works  of  that  description, 
since  young  people  especially,  from  their  natural 
idleness,  resort  to  this  kind  of  reading,  and,  be- 
coming enamored  of  passages  of  love  or  arms,  or 
other  nonsense  which  they  find  set  forth  therein, 
when  situations  at  all  analogous  offer,  are  led  to 
act  much  more  extravagantly  than  they  otherwise 
would  have  done.  And  many  times  the  daughter, 
when  her  mother  has  locked  her  up  safely  at  home, 
amuses  herself  with  reading  these  books,  which  do 
her  more  hurt  than  she  would  have  received  from 
going  abroad.  All  which  redounds  not  only  to 
the  dishonor  of  individuals,  but  to  the  great  detri- 
ment of  conscience,  by  diverting  the  affections 
from  holy,  true,  and  Christian  doctrine,  to  those 
wicked  vanities  with  which  the  wits,  as  we  have 
intimated,  are  completely  bewildered.  To  remedy 
this,  we  entreat  your  majesty  that  no  book  treat- 
ing of  such  matters  be  henceforth  permitted  to 
be  read,  that  those  now  printed  be  collected  and 
burned,  and  that  none  be  published  hereafter  with- 
out special  license;  by  which  measures  your 
majesty  will  render  great  service  to  God  as  well 
as  to  these  kingdoms,"  etc.,  etc. 

Notwithstanding  this  emphatic  expression  of 
public  disapprobation,  these  enticing  works  main- 
tained their  popularity.  The  emperor  Charles, 
unmindful  of  his  own  interdict,  took  great  satis- 
faction in  their  perusal.  The  royal  fetes  fre- 
quently comimemorated  the  fabulous  exploits  of 
chivalry,  and  Philip  the  Second,  then  a  young 
man,  appeared  in  these  spectacles  in  the  character 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  155 

of  an  adventurous  knight-errant.  Moratin  enu- 
merates more  than  seventy  bulky  romances,  all 
produced  in  the  sixteenth  century,  some  of  which 
passed  through  several  editions,  while  many  more 
works  of  the  kind  have,  doubtless,  escaped  his  re- 
searches. The  last  on  his  catalogue  was  printed 
in  1602,  and  was  composed  by  one  of  the  nobles 
at  the  court.  Such  was  the  state  of  things  when 
Cervantes  gave  to  the  world  the  First  Part  of  his 
Don  Quixote;  and  it  was  against  prejudices 
which  had  so  long  bade  defiance  to  public  opinion 
and  the  law  itself  that  he  now  aimed  the  delicate 
shafts  of  his  irony.     It  was  a  perilous  emprise. 

To  effect  his  end,  he  did  not  produce  a  mere 
humorous  travesty,  like  several  of  the  Italian 
poets,  who,  having  selected  some  well-known  char- 
acter in  romance,  make  him  fall  into  such  low 
dialogue  and  such  gross  buffoonery  as  contrast 
most  ridiculously  with  his  assumed  name;  for 
this,  though  a  very  good  jest  in  its  way,  was  but 
a  jest,  and  Cervantes  wanted  the  biting  edge  of 
satire.  He  was,  besides,  too  much  of  a  poet — 
was  too  deeply  penetrated  with  the  true  spirit  of 
chivalry  not  to  respect  the  noble  qualities  which 
were  the  basis  of  it.  He  shows  this  in  the  auto 
da  fe  of  the  Don's  library,  where  he  spares  the 
Amadis  de  Gaula  and  some  others,  the  best  of 
their  kind.  He  had  once  himself,  as  he  tells  us, 
actually  commenced  a  serious  tale  of  chivalry. 

Cervantes  brought  forward  a  personage,  there- 
fore, in  whom  were  embodied  all  those  generous 
virtues  which  belong  to  chivalry:  disinterested- 
ness,  contempt   of   danger,   unblemished  honor. 


156  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

knightly  courtesy,  and  those  aspirations  after 
ideal  excellence  which,  if  empty  dreams,  are  the 
dreams  of  a  magnanimous  spirit.  They  are,  in- 
deed, represented  by  Cervantes  as  too  ethereal  for 
this  world,  and  are  successively  dispelled  as  they 
come  in  contact  with  the  coarse  realities  of  life. 
It  is  this  view  of  the  subject  which  has  led  Sis- 
mondi,  among  other  critics,  to  consider  that  the 
principal  end  of  the  author  was  "  the  ridicule  of 
enthusiasm, — the  contrast  of  the  heroic  with  the 
vulgar," — and  he  sees  something  profoundly  sad 
in  the  conclusions  to  which  it  leads.  This  sort  of 
criticism  appears  to  be  over-refined.  It  resembles 
the  efforts  of  some  commentators  to  allegorize 
the  great  epics  of  Homer  and  Virgil,  throwing  a 
disagreeable  mistiness  over  the  story  by  convert- 
ing mere  shadows  into  substances,  and  substances 
into  shadows. 

The  great  purpose  of  Cervantes  was,  doubtless, 
that  expressly  avowed  by  himself,  namely,  to  cor- 
rect the  popular  taste  for  romances  of  chivalry. 
It  is  unnecessary  to  look  for  any  other  in  so 
plain  a  tale,  although,  it  is  true,  the  conduct  of 
the  story  produces  impressions  on  the  reader,  to 
a  certain  extent,  like  those  suggested  by  Sis- 
mondi.  The  melancholy  tendency,  however,  is  in 
a  great  degree  counteracted  by  the  exquisitely 
ludicrous  character  of  the  incidents.  Perhaps, 
after  aU,  if  we  are  to  hunt  for  a  moral  as  the  key 
of  the  fiction,  we  may  with  more  reason  pro- 
nounce it  to  be  the  necessity  of  proportioning  our 
undertakings  to  our  capacities. 

The  mind  of  the  hero,  Don  Quixote,  is  an  ideal 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  157 

world,  into  which  Cervantes  has  poured  all  the 
rich  stores  of  his  own  imagination,  the  poet's 
golden  dreams,  high  romantic  exploit,  and  the 
sweet  visions  of  pastoral  happiness ;  the  gorgeous 
chimeras  of  the  fancied  age  of  chivalry,  which 
had  so  long  entranced  the  world;  splendid  illu- 
sions, which,  floating  before  us  like  the  airy- 
bubbles  which  the  child  throws  off  from  his  pipe, 
reflect,  in  a  thousand  variegated  tints,  the  rude 
objects  around,  until,  brought  into  collision  wdth 
these,  they  are  dashed  in  pieces  and  melt  into  air. 
These  splendid  images  derive  tenfold  beauty 
from  the  rich,  antique  coloring  of  the  author's 
language,  skilfully  imitated  from  the  old  ro- 
mances, but  which  necessarily  escapes  in  the 
translation  into  a  foreign  tongue.  Don  Quixote's 
insanity  operates  both  in  mistaking  the  ideal  for 
the  real,  and  the  real  for  the  ideal.  Whatever  he 
has  found  in  romances  he  believes  to  exist  in  the 
world;  and  he  converts  all  he  meets  with  in  the 
world  into  the  visions  of  his  romances.  It  is  diffi- 
cult to  say  which  of  the  two  produces  the  most 
ludicrous  results. 

For  the  better  exposure  of  these  mad  fancies, 
Cervantes  has  not  only  put  them  into  action  in 
real  life,  but  contrasted  them  with  another  char- 
acter which  may  be  said  to  form  the  reverse  side 
of  his  hero's.  Honest  Sancho  represents  the  ma- 
terial principle  as  perfectly  as  his  master  does  the 
intellectual  or  ideal.  He  is  of  the  earth,  earthy. 
Sly,  selfish,  sensual,  his  dreams  are  not  of  glory, 
but  of  good  feeding.  His  only  concern  is  for  his 
carcass.    His  notions  of  honor  appear  to  be  much 


158  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

the  same  with  those  of  his  jovial  contemporary 
Falstaff,  as  conveyed  in  his  memorable  soliloquy. 
In  the  sublime  night-piece  which  ends  with  the 
fulling-mills — truly  sublime  until  we  reach  the 
denouement — Sancho  asks  his  master,  "  Why  need 
you  go  about  this  adventure  ?  It  is  main  dark,  and 
there  is  never  a  living  soul  sees  us ;  we  have  noth- 
ing to  do  but  to  sheer  off  and  get  out  of  harm's 
way.  Who  is  there  to  take  notice  of  our  flinch- 
ing?" Can  any  thing  be  imagined  more  exquisite- 
ly opposed  to  the  true  spirit  of  chivalry?  The 
whole  compass  of  fiction  nowhere  displays  the 
power  of  contrast  so  forcibly  as  in  these  two  char- 
acters: perfectly  opposed  to  each  other,  not  only 
in  their  minds  and  general  habits,  but  in  the  minu- 
test details  of  personal  appearance. 

It  was  a  great  effort  of  art  for  Cervantes  to 
maintain  the  dignity  of  his  hero's  character  in  the 
midst  of  the  whimsical  and  ridiculous  distresses  in 
which  he  has  perpetually  involved  him.  His  in- 
firmity leads  us  to  distinguish  between  his  char- 
acter and  his  conduct,  and  to  absolve  him  from  all 
responsibility  for  the  latter.  The  author's  art  is 
no  less  shown  in  regard  to  the  other  principal  fig- 
ure in  the  piece,  Sancho  Panza,  who,  with  the  most 
contemptible  qualities,  contrives  to  keep  a  strong 
hold  on  our  interest  by  the  kindness  of  his  nature 
and  his  shrewd  understanding.  He  is  far  too 
shrewd  a  person,  indeed,  to  make  it  natural  for 
him  to  have  followed  so  crack-brained  a  master 
unless  bribed  by  the  promise  of  a  substantial 
recompense.  He  is  a  personification,  as  it  were,  of 
the  popular  wisdom, — a  "  bundle  of  proverbs,"  as 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  159 

his  master  somewhere  styles  him;  and  proverbs 
are  the  most  compact  form  in  which  the  wisdom 
of  a  people  is  digested.  They  have  been  collected 
into  several  distinct  works  in  Spain,  where  they 
exceed  in  number  those  of  any  other,  if  not  every 
other,  country  in  Europe.  As  many  of  them  are 
of  great  antiquity,  they  are  of  inestimable  price 
with  the  Castilian  purists,  as  aif  ording  rich  sam- 
ples of  obsolete  idioms  and  the  various  mutations 
of  the  language. 

The  subordinate  portraits  in  the  romance, 
though  not  wrought  with  the  same  care,  are  ad- 
mirable studies  of  national  character.  In  this 
view,  the  Don  Quixote  may  be  said  to  form  an 
epoch  in  the  history  of  letters,  as  the  original  of 
that  kind  of  composition,  the  Xovel  of  Character, 
which  is  one  of  the  distinguishing  peculiarities  of 
modern  literature.  When  well  executed,  this  sort 
of  writing  rises  to  the  dignity  of  history  itself, 
and  may  be  said  to  perform  no  insignificant  part 
of  the  functions  of  the  latter.  History  describes 
men  less  as  they  are  than  as  they  appear,  as  they 
are  playing  a  part  on  the  great  pohtical  theatre, — 
men  in  masquerade.  It  rests  on  state  documents, 
which  too  often  cloak  real  purposes  under  an  art- 
ful veil  of  policy,  or  on  the  accounts  of  contempo- 
raries blinded  by  passion  or  interest.  Even  with- 
out these  deductions,  the  revolutions  of  states, 
their  wars,  and  their  intrigues  do  not  present  the 
only  aspect,  nor,  perhaps,  the  most  interesting, 
under  which  human  nature  can  be  studied.  It  is 
man  in  his  domestic  relations,  around  his  own  fire- 
side, where  alone  his  real  character  can  be  truly 


160  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

disclosed;  in  his  ordinary  occupations  in  society, 
whether  for  purposes  of  profit  or  of  pleasure;  in 
his  every-day  manner  of  living,  his  tastes  and 
opinions,  as  drawn  out  in  social  intercourse;  it  is, 
in  short,  under  all  those  forms  which  make  up  the 
interior  of  society  that  man  is  to  be  studied,  if  we 
would  get  the  true  form  and  pressure  of  the  age, 
if,  in  short,  we  would  obtain  clear  and  correct 
ideas  of  the  actual  progress  of  civilization. 

But  these  topics  do  not  fall  within  the  scope  of 
the  historian.  He  cannot  find  authentic  materials 
for  them.  They  belong  to  the  novelist,  who,  in- 
deed, contrives  his  incidents  and  creates  his 
characters,  but  who,  if  true  to  his  art,  animates 
them  with  the  same  tastes,  sentiments,  and  mo- 
tives of  action  which  belong  to  the  period  of  his 
fiction.  His  portrait  is  not  the  less  true  because 
no  individual  has  sat  for  it.  He  has  seized  the 
physiognomy  of  the  times.  Who  is  there  that 
does  not  derive  a  more  distinct  idea  of  the  state 
of  society  and  manners  in  Scotland  from  the  Wa- 
verley  novels  than  from  the  best  of  its  historians? 
of  the  condition  of  the  Middle  Ages  from  the 
single  romance  of  Ivanhoe  than  from  the  volumes 
of  Hume  or  Hallam?  In  like  manner,  the  pencil 
of  Cervantes  has  given  a  far  more  distinct  and  a 
richer  portraiture  of  life  in  Spain  in  the  sixteenth 
century  than  can  be  gathered  from  a  library  of 
monkish  chronicles. 

Spain,  which  furnished  the  first  good  model  of 
this  kind  of  "writing,  seems  to  have  possessed  more 
ample  materials  for  it  than  any  other  country  ex- 
cept England.    This  is  perhaps  owing  in  a  great 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  161 

degree  to  the  freedom  and  originality  of  the  pop- 
ular character.  It  is  the  country  where  the  lower 
classes  make  the  nearest  approach,  in  their  conver- 
sation, to  what  is  called  humor.  JNIany  of  the 
national  proverbs  are  seasoned  with  it,  as  well  as 
the  picaresco  tales,  the  indigenous  growth  of  the 
soil,  where,  however,  the  humor  runs  rather  too 
much  to  mere  practical  jokes.  The  free  expansion 
of  the  popular  characteristics  may  be  traced,  in 
part,  to  the  freedom  of  the  political  institutions 
of  the  country  before  the  iron  hand  of  the 
Austrian  dynasty  was  laid  on  it.  The  long 
wars  with  the  Moslem  invaders  called  every 
peasant  into  the  field,  and  gave  him  a  degree 
of  personal  consideration.  In  some  of  the 
provinces,  as  Catalonia,  the  democratic  spirit  fre- 
quently rose  to  an  uncontrollable  height.  In  this 
free  atmosphere  the  rich  and  peculiar  traits  of 
national  character  were  unfolded.  The  territorial 
divisions  which  marked  the  Peninsula,  broken  up 
anciently  into  a  number  of  petty  and  independ- 
ent states,  gave,  moreover,  great  variety  to 
the  national  portraiture.  The  rude  Asturian,  the 
haughty  and  indolent  Castilian,  the  industrious 
Aragonese,  the  independent  Catalan,  the  jealous 
and  wily  Andalusian,  the  effeminate  Valencian, 
and  magnificent  Granadine,  furnished  an'  infinite 
variety  of  character  and  costume  for  the  study  of 
the  artist.  The  intermixture  of  Asiatic  races  to 
an  extent  unknown  in  any  other  European  land 
was  favorable  to  the  same  result.  The  Jews  and 
the  Moors  were  settled  in  too  great  numbers,  and 
for  too  many  centuries,  in  the  land,  not  to  have 

Vol.  I.— 11 


162  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

left  traces  of  their  Oriental  civilization.  The  best 
blood  of  the  country  has  flowed  from  what  the 
modern  Spaniard — the  Spaniard  of  the  Inquisi- 
tion— regards  as  impure  sources;  and  a  work, 
popular  in  the  Peninsula,  under  the  name  of  Tizon 
de  Espana,  or  "  Brand  of  Spain,"  maliciously 
traces  back  the  pedigrees  of  the  noblest  houses  in 
the  kingdom  to  a  Jewish  or  Morisco  origin.  All 
these  circumstances  have  conspired  to  give  a  highly 
poetic  interest  to  the  character  of  the  Spaniards; 
to  make  them,  in  fact,  the  most  picturesque  of 
European  nations,  affording  richer  and  far  more 
various  subjects  for  the  novelist  than  other  nations 
whose  peculiarities  have  been  kept  down  by  the 
weight  of  a  despotic  government  or  the  artificial 
and  levelling  laws  of  fashion. 

There  is  one  other  point  of  view  in  which  the 
Don  Quixote  presents  itself,  that  of  its  didactic 
import.  It  is  not  merely  moral  in  its  general  ten- 
dency, though  this  was  a  rare  virtue  in  the  age  in 
which  it  was  written,  but  is  replete  with  admoni- 
tion and  criticism,  oftentimes  requiring  great  bold- 
ness, as  well  as  originality,  in  the  author.  Such, 
for  instance,  are  the  derision  of  witchcraft,  and 
other  superstitions  common  to  the  Spaniards ;  the 
ridicule  of  torture,  which,  though  not  used  in  the 
ordinary  courts,  was  familiar  to  the  Inquisition; 
the  frequent  strictures  on  various  departments  and 
productions  of  literature.  The  literary  criticism 
scattered  throughout  the  work  shows  a  profound 
acquaintance  with  the  true  principles  of  taste  far 
before  his  time,  and  which  has  left  his  judgments 
of  the  writings  of  his  countrymen  still  of  para- 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  163 

mount  authority.  In  truth,  the  great  scope  of  his 
work  was  didactic,  for  it  was  a  satire  against  the 
false  taste  of  his  age.  And  never  was  there  a  sat- 
ire so  completely  successful.  The  last  romance 
of  chivalry,  before  the  appearance  of  the  Don 
Quixote,  came  out  in  1602.  It  was  the  last  that 
was  ever  published  in  Spain.  So  completely  was 
this  kind  of  writing,  which  had  bade  defiance  to 
every  serious  effort,  now  extinguished  by  the 
breath  of  ridicule, 


That  soft  and  summer  breath,  whose  subtile  power 

Passes  the  strength  of  storms  in  their  most  desolate  hour." 


It  was  impossible  for  any  new  author  to  gain  an 
audience.  The  public  had  seen  how  the  thunder 
was  fabricated.  The  spectator  had  been  behind 
the  scenes,  and  witnessed  of  what  cheap  materials 
kings  and  queens  were  made.  It  was  impossible 
for  him,  by  any  stretch  of  imagination,  to  convert 
the  tinsel  and  painted  baubles  which  he  had  seen 
there  into  diadems  and  sceptres.  The  illusion  had 
fled  forever. 

Satire  seldom  survives  the  local  or  temporary 
interests  against  which  it  is  directed.  It  loses  its 
life  with  its  sting.  The  satire  of  Cervantes  is  an 
exception.  The  objects  at  which  it  was  aimed  have 
long  since  ceased  to  interest.  The  modern  reader  is 
attracted  to  the  book  simply  by  its  execution  as  a 
work  of  art,  and,  from  want  of  previous  knowl- 
edge, comprehends  few  of  the  allusions  which  gave 
such  infinite  zest  to  the  perusal  in  its  own  day. 
Yet  under  all  these  disadvantages,  it  not  onljr 


164  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

maintains  its  popularity,  but  is  far  more  widely 
extended,  and  enjoys  far  higher  consideration, 
than  in  the  life  of  its  author.  Such  are  the  tri- 
umphs of  genius ! 

Cervantes  correctly  appreciated  his  own  work. 
He  more  than  once  predicted  its  popularity.  "  I 
will  lay  a  wager,"  says  Sancho,  "  that  before  long 
there  will  not  be  a  chop-house,  tavern,  or  barber's 
stall  but  will  have  a  painting  of  our  achievements." 
The  honest  squire's  prediction  was  verified  in  his 
own  day;  and  the  author  might  have  seen  paint- 
ings of  his  work  on  wood  and  on  canvas,  as  well  as 
copper-plate  engravings  of  it.  Besides  several 
editions  of  it  at  home,  it  was  printed,  in  his  own 
time,  in  Portugal,  Flanders,  and  Italy.  Since  that 
period  it  has  passed  into  numberless  editions  both 
in  Spain  and  other  countries.  It  has  been  trans- 
lated into  nearly  every  European  tongue  over  and 
over  again;  into  English  ten  times,  into  French 
eight,  and  others  less  frequently.  We  will  close 
the  present  notice  with  a  brief  view  of  some  of  the 
principal  editions,  together  with  that  at  the  head 
of  our  article. 

The  currency  of  the  romance  among  all  classes 
frequently  invited  its  publication  by  incompetent 
hands;  and  the  consequence  was  a  plentiful  crop 
of  errors,  until  the  original  text  was  nearly  de- 
spoiled of  its  beauty,  while  some  passages  were 
omitted,  and  foreign  ones  still  more  shamefully 
interpolated.  The  first  attempt  to  retrieve  the 
original  from  these  harpies,  who  thus  foully  vio- 
lated it,  singularly  enough,  was  made  in  England. 
Queen  Caroline,  the  wife  of  George  the  Second, 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  165 

had  formed  a  collection  of  books  of  romance, 
which  she  playfully  named  the  "  library  of  the 
sage  MerUn."  The  romance  of  Cervantes  alone 
was  wanting;  and  a  nobleman,  Lord  Carteret, 
undertook  to  provide  her  with  a  suitable  copy  at 
his  own  expense.  This  was  the  origin  of  the  cele- 
brated edition  pubHshed  by  Tonson,  in  London, 
1738,  4  tom.  4to.  It  contained  the  Life  of  the 
Author,  written  for  it  by  the  learned  Mayans  y 
Siscar.  It  was  the  first  biography  (which  merits 
the  name)  of  Cervantes;  and  it  shows  into  what 
oblivion  his  personal  history  had  already  fallen, 
that  no  less  than  seven  towns  claimed  each  the 
honor  of  giving  him  birth.  The  fate  of  Cervantes 
resembled  that  of  Homer. 

The  example  thus  set  by  foreigners  excited  an 
honorable  emulation  at  home;  and  at  length,  in 
1780,  a  magnificent  edition,  from  the  far-famed 
press  of  Ibarra,  was  published  at  Madrid,  in  4  tom. 
4to,  under  the  auspices  of  the  Royal  Spanish  Acad- 
emy; which,  unlike  many  other  literary  bodies  of 
sounding  name,  has  contributed  most  essentially 
to  the  advancement  of  letters,  not  merely  by  origi- 
nal memoirs,  but  by  learned  and  very  beautiful 
editions  of  ancient  writers.  Its  Don  Quixote  ex- 
hibits a  most  careful  revision  of  the  text,  collated 
from  the  several  copies  printed  in  the  author's  life- 
time and  supposed  to  have  received  his  own  emen- 
dations. There  is  too  good  reason  to  believe  that 
these  corrections  were  made  with  a  careless  hand; 
at  all  events,  there  is  a  plentiful  harvest  of  typo- 
graphical blunders  in  these  primitive  editions. 

Prefixed  to  the  publication  of  the  Academy  is 


166  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

the  Life  of  Cervantes,  by  Rios,  written  with  un- 
common elegance,  and  containing  nearly  all  that 
is  of  much  interest  in  his  personal  history.  A 
copious  analysis  of  the  romance  follows,  in  which 
a  parallel  is  closely  elaborated  between  it  and  the 
poems  of  Homer.  But  the  romantic  and  the  clas- 
sical differ  too  widely  from  each  other  to  admit 
of  such  an  approximation;  and  the  method  of 
proceeding  necessarily  involves  its  author  in  infi- 
nite absurdities,  which  show  an  entire  ignorance  of 
the  true  principles  of  philosophical  criticism,  and 
which  he  would  scarcely  have  fallen  into  had  he 
given  heed  to  the  maxims  of  Cervantes  himself. 

In  the  following  year,  1781,  there  appeared  an- 
other edition  in  England  deserving  of  particular 
notice.  It  was  prepared  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Bowie, 
a  clergyman  at  Idemestone,  who  was  so  enamored 
of  the  romance  of  Cervantes  that,  after  collecting 
a  hbrary  of  such  works  as  could  any  way  illustrate 
his  author,  he  spent  fourteen  years  in  preparing  a 
suitable  commentary  on  him.  There  was  ample 
scope  for  such  a  commentary.  Many  of  the  satiri- 
cal allusions  of  the  romance  were  misunderstood, 
as  we  have  said,  owing  to  ignorance  of  the  books 
of  chivalry  at  which  they  were  aimed.  Many  inci- 
dents and  usages,  familiar  to  the  age  of  Cervantes, 
had  long  since  fallen  into  oblivion;  and  much  of 
the  idiomatic  phraseology  had  groM^n  to  be  obso- 
lete, and  required  explanation.  Cervantes  himself 
had  fallen  into  some  egregious  blunders,  which  in 
his  subsequent  revision  of  the  work  he  had  neg- 
lected to  set  right.  The  reader  will  readily  call 
to  mind  the  confusion  as  to  Sancho's  Dapple,  who 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  167 

appears  and  disappears,  most  unaccountably,  on 
the  scene,  according  as  the  author  happens  to  re- 
member or  forget  that  he  was  stolen.  He  after- 
wards corrected  this  in  two  or  three  instances,  but 
left  three  or  four  others  unheeded.  To  the  same 
account  must  be  charged  numberless  gross  anach- 
ronisms. Indeed,  the  whole  Second  Part  is  an 
anachronism,  since  the  author  introduces  his  hero 
criticising  his  First  Part,  in  which  his  own  epitaph 
is  recorded. 

Cervantes  seems  to  have  had  a  great  distaste  for 
the  work  of  revision.  Some  of  his  blunders  he 
laid  at  the  printer's  door,  and  others  he  dismissed 
with  the  remark,  more  ingenious  than  true,  that 
they  were  like  moles,  which,  though  blemishes  in 
themselves,  add  to  the  beauty  of  the  countenance. 
He  little  dreamed  that  his  lapses  were  to  be 
watched  so  narrowly,  that  a  catalogue  was  actually 
to  be  set  down  of  all  his  repetitions  and  incon- 
sistencies, and  that  each  of  his  hero's  sallies  was  to 
be  adjusted  by  an  accurate  chronological  table  like 
any  real  history.  He  would  have  been  still  slower 
to  believe  that  in  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury a  learned  society,  the  Academy  of  Literature 
and  Fine  Arts  at  Troyes,  in  Champagne,  should 
have  chosen  a  deputation  of  their  body  to  visit 
Spain  and  examine  the  library  of  the  Escurial,  in 
order  to  obtain,  if  possible,  the  original  MS.  of 
that  Arabian  sage  from  whom  Cervantes  pro- 
fessed to  have  translated  his  romance.  This  was 
to  be  more  mad  than  Don  Quixote  himself;  yet 
this  actually  happened. 

Bowie's   edition   was   printed   in   six   volumes 


168  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

quarto ;  the  two  last  contained  notes,  illustrations, 
and  index,  all,  as  well  as  the  text,  in  Castilian. 
Watt,  in  his  laborious  "  Bibliotheca  Britannica," 
remarks  that  the  book  did  not  come  up  to  the  pub- 
lic expectation.  If  so,  the  public  must  have  been 
very  unreasonable.  It  was  a  marvellous  achieve- 
ment for  a  foreigner.  It  was  the  first  attempt  at 
a  commentary  on  the  Quixote,  and,  although 
doubtless  exhibiting  inaccuracies  which  a  native 
might  have  escaped,  has  been  a  rich  mine  of  illus- 
tration, from  which  native  critics  have  helped 
themselves  most  liberally,  and  sometimes  with 
scanty  acknowledgement. 

The  example  of  the  English  critic  led  to  similar 
labors  in  Spain,  among  the  most  successful  of 
which  may  be  mentioned  the  edition  by  Pellicer, 
which  has  commended  itself  to  every  scholar  by  its 
very  learned  disquisitions  on  many  topics  both  of 
history  and  criticism.  It  also  contains  a  valuable 
memoir  of  Cervantes,  whose  life  has  since  been 
written,  in  a  manner  which  leaves  nothing  farther 
to  be  desired,  by  Navarrete,  well  known  by  his 
laborious  publication  of  documents  relative  to  the 
early  Spanish  discoveries.  His  biography  of  the 
novelist  comprehends  all  the  information,  direct 
and  subsidiary,  which  can  now  be  brought  together 
for  the  elucidation  of  his  personal  or  literary  his- 
tory. If  Cervantes,  like  his  great  contemporary, 
Shakspeare,  has  left  few  authentic  details  of  his 
existence,  the  deficiency  has  been  diligently  sup- 
plied in  both  cases  by  speculation  and  conjecture. 

There  was  still  wanting  a  classical  commentary 
on  the  Quixote  devoted  to  the  literary  execution 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  169 

of  the  work.  Such  a  commentary  has  at  length 
appeared  from  the  pen  of  Clemencin,  the  accom- 
plished secretary  of  the  Spanish  Academy  of  His- 
tory, who  had  acquired  a  high  reputation  for  him- 
self by  the  publication  of  the  sixth  volume  of  its 
memoirs,  the  exclusive  work  of  his  own  hand.  In 
his  edition  of  the  romance,  besides  illuminating 
with  rare  learning  many  of  the  obscure  points  in 
the  narrative,  he  has  accompanied  the  text  with  a 
severe  but  enlightened  criticism,  which,  while  it 
boldly  exposes  occasional  offences  against  taste  or 
grammar,  directs  the  eye  to  those  latent  beauties 
which  might  escape  a  rapid  or  an  ordinary  reader. 
We  much  doubt  if  any  Castilian  classic  has  been 
so  ably  illustrated.  Unfortunately,  the  First  Part 
only  was  completed  by  the  commentator,  who  died 
very  recently.  It  will  not  be  easy  to  find  a  critic 
equally  qualified  by  his  taste  and  erudition  for  the 
completion  of  the  work. 

The  English,  as  we  have  noticed,  have  evinced 
their  relish  for  Cervantes  not  only  by  their  critical 
labors  but  by  repeated  translations.  Some  of  these 
are  executed  with  much  skill,  considering  the  diffi- 
culty of  correctly  rendering  the  idiomatic  phrase- 
ology of  humorous  dialogue.  The  most  popular 
versions  are  those  of  Motteux,  Jarvis,  and  Smol- 
lett. Perhaps  the  first  is  the  best  of  all.  It  was 
by  a  Frenchman,  who  came  over  to  England  in  the 
time  of  James  the  Second.  It  betrays  nothing  of 
its  foreign  parentage,  however,  while  its  rich  and 
racy  diction  and  its  quaint  turns  of  expression  are 
admirably  suited  to  convey  a  lively  and  very  faith- 
ful image  of  the  original.    The  slight  tinge  of  an- 


170  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

tiquity  which  belongs  to  the  time  is  not  displeasing, 
and  comports  well  with  the  tone  of  knightly  dig- 
nity which  distinguishes  the  hero.  Lockhart's 
notes  and  poetical  versions  of  old  Castilian  ballads, 
appended  to  the  recent  edition  of  Motteux,  have 
rendered  it  by  far  the  most  desirable  translation. 
It  is  singular  that  the  first  classical  edition  of  Don 
Quixote,  the  first  commentary,  and  probably  the 
best  foreign  translation  should  have  been  all  pro- 
duced in  England;  and,  farther,  that  the  English 
commentator  should  have  written  in  Spanish,  and 
the  English  translation  have  been  by  a  French- 
man. 

We  now  come  to  Mr.  Sales's  recent  edition  of 
the  original,  the  first,  probably,  which  has  appeared 
in  the  New  World,  of  the  one-half  of  which  the 
Spanish  is  the  spoken  language.  There  was  great 
need  of  some  uniform  edition  to  meet  the  wants 
of  our  University,  where  much  inconvenience  has 
been  long  experienced  from  the  discrepancies  of 
the  copies  used.  The  only  ones  to  be  procured  in 
this  country  are  contemptible  both  in  regard  to 
printing  and  paper,  and  are  defaced  by  the  gross- 
est errors.  They  are  the  careless  manufacture  of 
ill-informed  Spanish  booksellers,  made  to  sell,  and 
dear  to  boot. 

Mr.  Sales  has  adopted  a  right  plan  for  remedy- 
ing these  several  evils.  He  has  carefully  formed 
his  text  on  that  of  the  last  and  most  correct  edition 
of  the  Academy,  and,  as  he  has  stereotyped  the 
work,  any  verbal  errors  may  be  easily  rectified. 
The  Academy  has  substituted  the  modern  orthog- 
raphy for  that  of  Cervantes,  who,  independently 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  171 

of  the  change  which  has  gradually  taken  place  in 
the  language,  seems  to  have  had  no  uniform  sys- 
tem himself.  Mr.  Sales  has  conformed  to  the  rules 
prescribed  by  this  high  authority  for  regulating 
his  orthography,  accent,  and  punctuation.  In 
some  instances,  only,  he  has  adopted  the  ancient 
usage  in  beginning  words  with  /  instead  of  h,  and 
retaining  obsolete  terminations  of  verbs,  as  hah- 
lades  for  hablais,  hablahades  for  hablabais,  amades 
for  amais,  amahades  for  amabais,  etc.,  no  doubt  as 
better  suited  to  the  lofty  tone  of  the  good  knight's 
discourses,  who  himself  affected  a  reverence  for 
the  antique  in  his  conversation  to  which  his  trans- 
lators have  not  always  sufficiently  attended. 

In  one  respect  the  present  editor  has  made  some 
alterations  not  before  attempted,  we  believe,  in  the 
text  of  his  original.  We  have  already  noticed 
the  inaccuracies  of  the  early  copies  of  the  Don 
Quixote,  partly  imputable  to  Cervantes  himself, 
and  in  a  greater  degree,  doubtless,  to  his  printers. 
There  is  no  way  of  rectifying  such  errors  by  col- 
lation with  the  author's  manuscript,  which  has  long 
since  disappeared.  All  that  can  now  be  done,  there- 
fore, is  to  point  out  the  purer  reading  in  a  note,  as 
Clemencin,  Arrieta,  and  other  commentators  have 
done,  or,  as  Mr.  Sales  has  preferred,  to  introduce 
it  into  the  body  of  the  text.  We  will  give  one  or 
two  specimens  of  these  alterations : 

"  Poco  mas  6  menos." — Tom.  i.  p.  141. 

The  reading  in  the  old  editions  is  "  poco  mas  a  me- 
nos," a  phrase  as  unintelligible  in  Spanish  now  as 


172  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

its  literal  translation  would  be  in  English,  although 
in  use,  it  would  seem  from  other  authorities,  in  the 
age  of  Cervantes. 

"Por  tales  os  juzgue  y  tuve." — Tom.  i.  p.  104. 

The  old  editions  add  "  siempre,"  which  clearly  is 
incorrect,  since  Don  Quixote  is  speaking  of  the 
present  occasion. 

"  Don  Quijote  qued6  admirado." — Tom.  i.  p.  143. 

Other  editions  read  "  El  cual  quedo,"  etc.  The 
use  of  the  relative  leaves  the  reader  in  doubt  who 
is  intended,  and  Mr.  Sales,  in  conformity  to  Clem- 
encin's  suggestion,  has  made  the  sentence  clear  by 
substituting  the  name  of  the  knight. 

"  Donde  les  sucedieron  cosas,"  etc. — Tom.  ii.  p.  44. 

In  other  editions,  "  siicedio;  "  bad  grammar,  since 
it  agrees  with  a  plural  noun. 

"  En  tan  poco  espacio  de  tiempo  como  ha  que 
estuvo  alia,"  etc.  (tom.  ii.  p.  132),  instead  of  "  estd 
alld,"  clearly  the  wrong  tense,  since  the  verb  refers 
to  past  time. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  multiply  examples,  a  suffi- 
cient number  of  which  have  been  cited  to  show  on 
what  principles  the  emendations  have  been  made. 
They  have  been  confined  to  the  correction  of  such 
violations  of  grammar,  or  such  inaccuracies  of  ex- 
pression, as  obscure  or  distort  the  meaning.  They 
have  been  made  with  great  circumspection,  and  in 
obedience  to  the  suggestion  of  the  highest  authori- 
ties in  the  language.  For  the  critical  scholar,  who 
would  naturally  prefer  the  primitive  text  with  all 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  173 

its  impurities,  they  were  not  designed.  But  they 
are  of  infinite  value  to  the  general  reader  and  the 
student,  who  may  now  read  this  beautiful  classic 
purified  from  those  verbal  blemishes  which,  how- 
ever obvious  to  a  native,  could  not  fail  to  mislead 
a  foreigner. 

Besides  these  emendations,  Mr.  Sales  has  illus- 
trated the  work  by  prefixing  to  it  the  admirable 
preliminary  discourse  of  Clemencin,  and  by  a  con- 
siderable body  of  notes,  selected  and  abridged  from 
the  most  approved  commentators ;  and,  as  the  ob- 
ject has  been  to  explain  the  text  to  the  reader,  not 
to  involve  him  in  antiquarian  or  critical  disquisi- 
tions, when  his  authorities  have  failed  to  do  this 
the  editor  has  supplied  notes  of  his  own,  throwing 
much  light  on  matters  least  familiar  to  a  foreigner. 
In  this  part  of  his  work  we  think  he  might  have 
derived  considerable  aid  from  Bowie,  whom  he 
does  not  appear  to  have  consulted.  The  Castilian 
commentator  Arrieta,  whom  he  liberally  uses,  is 
largely  indebted  to  the  English  critic,  who,  as  a 
foreigner,  moreover,  has  been  led  into  many  sea- 
sonable explanations  that  would  be  superfluous  to 
a  Spaniard. 

We  may  notice  another  peculiarity  in  the  pres- 
ent edition,  that  of  breaking  up  the  text  into  rea- 
sonable paragraphs,  in  imitation  of  the  English 
translations;  a  great  relief  to  the  spirits  of  the 
reader,  which  are  seriously  damped,  in  the  ancient 
copies,  by  the  interminable  waste  of  page  upon 
page,  without  these  convenient  halting-places. 

But  our  readers,  we  fear,  will  think  we  are  run- 
ning into  an  interminable  waste  of  discussion.    We 


174  CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES 

will  only  remark,  therefore,  in  conclusion,  that  the 
mechanical  execution  of  the  book  is  highly  credit- 
able to  our  press.  It  is,  moreover,  adorned  with 
etchings  by  our  American  Cruikshank,  Johnston, 
— some  of  them  original,  but  mostly  copies  from 
the  late  English  edition  of  Smollett's  translations. 
They  are  designed  and  executed  with  much  spirit, 
and,  no  doubt,  would  have  fully  satisfied  honest 
Sancho,  who  predicted  this  kind  of  immortahty 
for  himself  and  his  master. 

We  congratulate  the  public  on  the  possession  of 
an  edition  of  the  pride  of  Castilian  literature  from 
our  own  press  in  so  neat  a  form  and  executed  with 
so  much  correctness  and  judgment;  and  we  trust 
that  the  ambition  of  its  respectable  editor  will  be 
gratified  by  its  becoming,  as  it  well  deserves  to  be, 
the  manual  of  the  student  in  every  seminary 
throughout  the  country  where  the  noble  Castihan 
language  is  taught. 


SIR   WALTER    SCOTT* 

(April,  1838.) 

THERE  is  no  kind  of  writing,  which  has  truth 
and  instruction  for  its  main  object,  so  inter- 
esting and  popular,  on  the  whole,  as  biography. 
History,  in  its  larger  sense,  has  to  deal  with  masses, 
which,  while  they  divide  the  attention  by  the  daz- 
zling variety  of  objects,  from  their  very  generality 
are  scarcely  capable  of  touching  the  heart.  The 
great  objects  on  which  it  is  employed  have  little 
relation  to  the  daily  occupations  with  which  the 
reader  is  most  intimate.  A  nation,  like  a  corpora- 
tion, seems  to  have  no  soul,  and  its  checkered  vicis- 
situdes may  be  contemplated  rather  with  curiosity 
for  the  lessons  they  convey  than  with  personal 
sympathy.  How  different  are  the  feelings  excited 
by  the  fortunes  of  an  individual, — one  of  the 
mighty  mass,  who  in  the  page  of  history  is  swept 
along  the  current  unnoticed  and  unknown!  In- 
stead of  a  mere  abstraction,  at  once  we  see  a  being 
like  ourselves,  "fed  with  the  same  food,  hurt  with 
the  same  weapons,  subject  to  the  same  diseases, 
healed  by  the  same  means,  warmed  and  cooled  by 
the  same  winter  and  summer"  as  we  are.  We 
place  ourselves  in  his  position,  and  see  the  passing 

•  1.  "  Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Bart.,  by  J.  G. 
Lockhart.     Five  vols.  12rao.     Boston:    Otis,  Broaders  &  Co.,  1837." 

2.  "  Recollections    of    Sir    Walter    Scott,    Bart.,    16mo.     London: 
James  Fraser,  1837." 

175 


176  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

current  of  events  with  the  same  eyes.  We  be- 
come a  party  to  all  his  httle  schemes,  share  in  his 
triumphs,  or  mourn  with  him  in  the  disappoint- 
ment of  defeat.  His  friends  become  our  friends. 
We  learn  to  take  an  interest  in  their  characters 
from  their  relation  to  liim.  As  they  pass  away 
from  the  stage  one  after  another,  and  as  the  clouds 
of  misfortune,  perhaps,  or  of  disease,  settle  around 
the  evening  of  his  own  day,  we  feel  the  same  sad- 
ness that  steals  over  us  on  a  retrospect  of  earlier 
and  happier  hours.  And  when  at  last  we  have  fol- 
lowed him  to  the  tomb,  we  close  the  volume,  and 
feel  that  we  have  turned  over  another  chapter  in 
the  history  of  life. 

On  the  same  principles,  probably,  we  are  more 
moved  by  the  exhibition  of  those  characters  whose 
days  have  been  passed  in  the  ordinary  routine  of 
domestic  and  social  life  than  by  those  most  inti- 
mately connected  Avith  the  great  public  events  of 
their  age.  What,  indeed,  is  the  history  of  such 
men  but  that  of  the  times?  The  life  of  Welling- 
ton or  of  Bonaparte  is  the  story  of  the  wars  and 
revolutions  of  Europe.  But  that  of  Cowper, 
gliding  away  in  the  seclusion  of  rural  solitude,  re- 
flects all  those  domestic  joys,  and,  alas!  more  than 
the  sorrows,  which  gather  around  every  man's  fire- 
side and  his  heart.  In  this  way  the  story  of  the 
humblest  individual,  faithfully  recorded,  becomes 
an  object  of  lively  interest.  How  much  is  that  in- 
terest increased  in  the  case  of  a  man  like  Scott, 
who,  from  his  own  fireside,  has  sent  forth  a  voice 
to  cheer  and  delight  millions  of  his  fellow-men, — 
whose  life  was  passed  within  the  narrow  circle  of 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  177 

his  own  village,  as  it  were,  but  who,  nevertheless, 
has  called  up  more  shapes  and  fantasies  within  that 
magic  circle,  acted  more  extraordinary  parts,  and 
afforded  more  marvels  for  the  imagination  to  feed 
on,  than  can  be  furnished  by  the  most  nimble- 
footed,  nimble-tongued  traveller,  from  JMarco 
Polo  down  to  Mrs.  TroUope,  and  that  literary 
Sindbad,  Captain  Hall. 

Fortunate  as  Sir  Walter  Scott  was  in  his  hfe,  it 
is  not  the  least  of  his  good  fortunes  that  he  left  the 
task  of  recording  it  to  one  so  competent  as  Mr. 
Lockhart,  who  to  a  familiarity  with  the  person 
and  habits  of  his  illustrious  subject  unites  such 
entire  sympathy  with  his  pursuits  and  such  fine 
tact  and  discrimination  in  arranging  the  materials 
for  their  illustration.  We  have  seen  it  objected 
that  the  biographer  has  somewhat  transcended  his 
lawful  limits  in  occasionally  exposing  what  a  nice 
tenderness  for  the  reputation  of  Scott  should  have 
led  him  to  conceal;  but,  on  reflection,  we  are  not 
inclined  to  adopt  these  views.  It  is  difficult  to  pre- 
scribe any  precise  rule  by  which  the  biographer 
should  be  guided  in  exhibiting  the  peculiarities, 
and,  still  more,  the  defects,  of  his  subject.  He 
should,  doubtless,  be  slow  to  draw  from  obscurity 
those  matters  which  are  of  a  strictly  personal  and 
private  nature,  particularly  when  they  have  no 
material  bearing  on  the  character  of  the  individual. 
But  whatever  the  latter  has  done,  said,  or  written 
to  others  can  rarely  be  made  to  come  within  this 
rule.  A  swell  of  panegyric,  where  every  thing  is 
in  broad  sunshine,  without  the  relief  of  a  shadow 
to  contrast  it,  is  out  of  nature,  and  must  bring  dis- 

VoL.  I.— 12 


178  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

credit  on  the  whole.  Nor  is  it  much  better  when  a 
sort  of  twihght  mystification  is  spread  over  a  man's 
actions,  until,  as  in  the  case  of  all  biographies  of 
Cowper  previous  to  that  of  Southey,  we  are  com- 
pletely bewildered  respecting  the  real  motives  of 
conduct.  If  ever  there  was  a  character  above  the 
necessity  of  any  management  of  this  sort,  it  was 
Scott's;  and  we  cannot  but  think  that  the  frank 
exposition  of  the  minor  blemishes  which  sully  it, 
by  securing  the  confidence  of  the  reader  in  the  gen- 
eral fidelity  of  the  portraiture,  and  thus  disposing 
him  to  receive  without  distrust  those  favorable 
statements  in  his  history  which  might  seem  incred- 
ible, as  they  certainly  are  unprecedented,  is,  on 
the  whole,  advantageous  to  his  reputation.  As  re- 
gards the  moral  effect  on  the  reader,  we  may  ap- 
ply Scott's  own  argument  for  not  always  recom- 
pensing suffering  virtue,  at  the  close  of  his  fictions, 
with  temporal  prosperity, — that  such  an  arrange- 
ment would  convey  no  moral  to  the  heart  whatever, 
since  a  glance  at  the  great  picture  of  life  would 
show  that  virtue  is  not  always  thus  rewarded. 

In  regard  to  the  Hterary  execution  of  Mr.  Lock- 
hart's  work,  the  public  voice  has  long  since  pro- 
nounced on  it.  A  prying  criticism  may  discern  a 
few  of  those  contraband  epithets  and  shpshod  sen- 
tences, more  excusable  in  young  "  Peter's  Letters 
to  his  Kinsfolk,"  where,  indeed,  they  are  thickly 
sown,  than  in  the  production  of  a  grave  Aristarch 
of  British  criticism.  But  this  is  small  game,  where 
every  reader  of  the  least  taste  and  sensibility  must 
find  so  much  to  applaud.  It  is  enough  to  say  that 
in  passing  from  the  letters  of  Scott,  with  which  the 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  179 

work  is  enriched,  to  the  text  of  the  biographer,  we 
find  none  of  those  chilling  transitions  which  occur 
on  the  hke  occasions  in  more  bungling  productions ; 
as,  for  example,  in  that  recent  one  in  which  the 
unfortunate  Hannah  More  is  done  to  death  by  her 
friend  Roberts.  On  the  contrary,  we  are  sensible 
only  to  a  new  variety  of  beauty  in  the  style  of  com- 
position. The  correspondence  is  illumined  by  all 
that  is  needed  to  make  it  intelligible  to  a  stranger, 
and  selected  with  such  discernment  as  to  produce 
the  clearest  impression  of  the  character  of  its 
author.  The  mass  of  interesting  details  is  con- 
veyed in  language  richly  colored  with  poetic  senti- 
ment, and,  at  the  same  time,  without  a  tinge  of 
that  mysticism  which,  as  Scott  himself  truly  re- 
marked, "  will  never  do  for  a  writer  of  fiction,  no, 
nor  of  history,  nor  moral  essaj^s,  nor  sermons,"  but 
which,  nevertheless,  finds  more  or  less  favor  in  our 
own  community,  at  the  present  day,  in  each  and 
all  of  these. 

The  second  work  which  we  have  placed  at  the 
head  of  this  article,  and  from  which  the  last  remark 
of  Sir  Walter's  was  borrowed,  is  a  series  of  notices 
originally  published  in  "Fraser's  Magazine,"  but 
now  collected,  with  considerable  additions,  into  a 
separate  volume.  Its  author,  Mr.  Robert  Pierce 
Gillies,  is  a  gentleman  of  the  Scotch  bar,  favorably 
known  by  translations  from  the  German.  The 
work  conveys  a  lively  report  of  several  scenes  and 
events  which  before  the  appearance  of  Lockhart's 
book  were  of  more  interest  and  importance  than 
they  can  now  be,  lost  as  they  are  in  the  flood  of 
light  which  is  poured  on  us  from  that  source.    In 


180  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

the  absence  of  the  sixth  and  last  volume,  however, 
Mr.  Gillies  may  help  us  to  a  few  particulars  re- 
specting the  closing  years  of  Sir  Walter's  life,  that 
may  have  some  novelty — we  know  not  how  much 
to  be  rehed  on — for  the  reader.  In  the  present 
notice  of  a  work  so  familiar  to  most  persons,  we 
shall  confine  ourselves  to  some  of  those  circum- 
stances which  contribute  to  form,  or  have  an  ob- 
vious connection  with,  his  literary  character. 

Walter  Scott  was  born  at  Edinburgh,  August 
15th,  1771.  The  character  of  his  father,  a  respect- 
able member  of  that  class  of  attorneys  who  in  Scot- 
land are  called  Writers  to  the  Signet,  is  best  con- 
veyed to  the  reader  by  saying  that  he  sat  for  the 
portrait  of  Mr.  Saunders  Fair  ford  in  "  Redgaunt- 
let."  His  mother  was  a  woman  of  taste  and  im- 
agination, and  had  an  obvious  influence  in  guiding 
those  of  her  son.  His  ancestors,  by  both  father's 
and  mother's  side,  were  of  "  gentle  blood,"  a  posi- 
tion which,  placed  between  the  highest  and  the 
lower  ranks  in  society,  was  extremely  favorable,  as 
affording  facilities  for  communication  with  both. 
A  lameness  in  his  infancy, — a  most  fortunate 
lameness  for  the  world,  if,  as  Scott  says,  it  spoiled 
a  soldier, — and  a  delicate  constitution,  made  it  ex- 
pedient to  try  the  efficacy  of  country  air  and  diet, 
and  he  was  placed  under  the  roof  of  his  paternal 
grandfather  at  Sandy-Knowe,  a  few  miles  distant 
from  the  capital.  Here  his  days  were  passed  in 
the  open  fields,  "  with  no  other  fellowship,"  as  he 
says,  "than  that  of  the  sheep  and  lambs;"  and 
here,  in  the  lap  of  Nature, 

"  Meet  nurse  for  a  poetic  child," 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  181 

his  infant  vision  was  greeted  with  those  rude,  ro- 
mantic scenes  which  his  own  verses  have  since  hal- 
lowed for  the  pilgrims  from  every  clime.  In  the 
long  evenings,  his  imagination,  as  he  grew  older, 
was  warmed  by  traditionary  legends  of  border 
heroism  and  adventure,  repeated  by  the  aged  rela- 
tive, who  had  herself  witnessed  the  last  gleams  of 
border  chivalry.  His  memory  was  one  of  the  first 
powers  of  his  mind  which  exhibited  an  extraor- 
dinary development.  One  of  the  longest  of  these 
old  baUads,  in  particular,  stuck  so  close  to  it,  and 
he  repeated  it  with  such  stentorian  vociferation, 
as  to  draw  from  the  minister  of  a  neighboring 
kirk  the  testy  exclamation,  "One  may  as  well 
speak  in  the  mouth  of  a  cannon  as  where  that 
child  is." 

On  his  removal  to  Edinburgh,  in  his  eighth 
year,  he  was  subjected  to  different  influences. 
His  worthy  father  was  a  severe  martinet  in  all 
the  forms  of  his  profession,  and,  it  may  be  added, 
of  his  religion,  which  he  contrived  to  make  some- 
what burdensome  to  his  more  volatile  son.  The 
tutor  was  still  more  strict  in  his  religious  senti- 
ments, and  the  lightest  literary  diversion  in  which 
either  of  them  indulged  was  such  as  could  be 
gleaned  from  the  time-honored  folios  of  Arch- 
bishop Spottiswoode  or  worthy  Robert  Wodrow. 
Even  here,  however,  Scott's  young  mind  con- 
trived to  gather  materials  and  impulses  for  future 
action.  In  his  long  arguments  with  Master 
Mitchell,  he  became  steeped  in  the  history  of  the 
Covenanters  and  the  persecuted  Church  of  Scot- 
land, while  he  was  still  more  rooted  in  his  own 


182  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

Jacobite  notions,  early  instilled  into  his  mind  by 
the  tales  of  his  relatives  of  Sandy-Knowe,  whose 
own  family  had  been  out  in  the  "  affair  of  forty- 
five."  Amid  the  professional  and  polemical 
worthies  of  his  father's  library,  Scott  detected  a 
copy  of  Shakspeare,  and  he  relates  with  what 
gout  he  used  to  creep  out  of  his  bed,  where  he 
had  been  safely  deposited  for  the  night,  and,  by 
the  light  of  the  fire,  in  puris  naturalihus,  pore  over 
the  pages  of  the  great  magician,  and  study  those 
mighty  spells  by  which  he  gave  to  airy  fantasies 
the  forms  and  substance  of  humanity.  Scott  dis- 
tinctly recollected  the  time  and  the  spot  where  he 
first  opened  a  volume  of  Percy's  "Reliques  of 
English  Poetry;"  a  work  which  may  have  sug- 
gested to  him  the  plan  and  the  purpose  of  the 
"Border  Minstrelsy."  Every  day's  experience 
shows  how  much  more  actively  the  business  of 
education  goes  on  out  of  school  than  in  it;  and 
Scott's  history  shows  equally  that  genius,  what- 
ever obstacles  may  be  thrown  in  its  way  in  one 
direction,  will  find  room  for  its  expansion  in 
another,  as  the  young  tree  sends  forth  its  shoots 
most  prolific  in  that  quarter  where  the  sunshine 
is  permitted  to  fall  on  it. 

At  the  High  School,  in  which  he  was  placed  by 
his  father  at  an  early  period,  he  seems  not  to  have 
been  particularly  distinguished  in  the  regular 
course  of  studies.  His  voracious  appetite  for 
books,  however,  of  a  certain  cast,  as  romances, 
chivalrous  tales,  and  worm-eaten  chronicles 
scarcely  less  chivalrous,  and  his  wonderful  mem- 
ory for  such  reading  as  struck  his  fancy,  soon 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  183 

made  him  regarded  by  his  fellows  as  a  phenome- 
non of  black-letter  scholarship,  which,  in  process 
of  time,  achieved  for  him  the  cognomen  of  that 
redoubtable  schoolman.  Duns  Scotus.  He  now 
also  gave  evidence  of  his  powers  of  creation  as 
well  as  of  acquisition.  He  became  noted  for  his 
own  stories,  generally  bordering  on  the  marvel- 
lous, with  a  plentiful  seasoning  of  knight-errantry, 
which  suited  his  bold  and  chivalrous  temper. 
"  Slink  over  beside  me,  Jamie,"  he  would  whisper 
to  his  school-fellow  Ballantyne,  "  and  I'll  tell  you 
a  story.'*  Jamie  was,  indeed,  destined  to  sit 
beside  him  during  the  greater  part  of  his  life. 

The  same  tastes  and  talents  continued  to  dis- 
play themselves  more  strongly  with  increasing 
years.  Having  beaten  pretty  thoroughly  the 
ground  of  romantic  and  legendary  lore,  at 
least  so  far  as  the  English  libraries  to  which  he 
had  access  would  permit,  he  next  endeavored,  while 
at  the  University,  to  which  he  had  been  transferred 
from  the  High  School,  to  pursue  the  same  subject 
in  the  Continental  languages.  Many  were  the 
strolls  which  he  took  in  the  neighborhood,  espe- 
cially to  Arthur's  Seat  and  Salisbury  Crags,  where, 
perched  on  some  almost  inaccessible  eyry,  he 
might  be  seen  conning  over  his  Ariosto  or  Cer- 
vantes, or  some  other  bard  of  romance,  with  some 
favorite  companion  of  his  studies,  or  pouring  into 
the  ears  of  the  latter  his  own  boyish  legends,  glow- 
ing with 

"  achievements  high. 
And  circumstance  of  chivalry." 

A   critical   knowledge   of  these   languages  he 


184  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

seems  not  to  have  obtained,  and  even  in  the  French 
made  but  an  indifferent  figure  in  conversation. 
An  accurate  acquaintance  with  the  pronunciation 
and  prosody  of  a  foreign  tongue  is  undoubtedly 
a  desirable  accomplishment;  but  it  is,  after  all,  a 
mere  accomplishment,  subordinate  to  the  great 
purposes  for  which  a  language  is  to  be  learned. 
Scott  did  not,  as  is  too  often  the  case,  mistake  the 
shell  for  the  kernel.  He  looked  on  language  only 
as  the  key  to  unlock  the  foreign  stores  of  wisdom, 
the  pearls  of  inestimable  price,  wherever  found, 
with  which  to  enrich  his  native  literature. 

After  a  brief  residence  at  the  University,  he  was 
regularly  indented  as  an  apprentice  to  his  father  in 
1786.  One  can  hardly  imagine  a  situation  less  con- 
genial with  the  ardent,  effervescing  spirit  of  a 
poetic  fancy,  fettered  down  to  a  daily  routine  of 
drudgery  scarcely  above  that  of  a  mere  scrivener. 
It  proved,  however,  a  useful  school  of  disciphne  to 
him.  It  formed  early  habits  of  method,  punctual- 
ity, and  laborious  industry, — business  habits,  in 
short,  most  adverse  to  the  poetic  temperament,  but 
indispensable  to  the  accomplishment  of  the  gigan- 
tic tasks  which  he  afterwards  assumed.  He  has 
himself  borne  testimony  to  his  general  diligence  in 
his  new  vocation,  and  tells  us  that  on  one  occasion 
he  transcribed  no  less  than  a  hundred  and  twenty 
folio  pages  at  a  sitting. 

In  the  midst  of  these  mechanical  duties,  he  did 
not  lose  sight  of  the  favorite  objects  of  his  study 
and  meditation.  He  made  frequent  excursions 
into  the  Lowland  as  well  as  Highland  districts  in 
search  of  traditionary  relics.     These  pilgrimages 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  185 

he  frequently  performed  on  foot.  His  constitu- 
tion, now  become  hardy  by  severe  training,  made 
him  careless  of  exposure,  and  his  frank  and  warm- 
hearted manners — eminently  favorable  to  his  pur- 
poses, by  thawing  at  once  any  feelings  of  frosty 
reserve  which  might  have  encountered  a  stranger 
— made  him  equally  welcome  at  the  staid  and  de- 
corous manse  and  at  the  rough  but  hospitable  board 
of  the  peasant.  Here  was,  indeed,  the  study  of 
the  future  novelist,  the  very  school  in  which  to 
meditate  those  models  of  character  and  situation 
which  he  was  afterwards,  long  afterwards,  to 
transfer,  in  such  living  colors,  to  the  canvas.  "  He 
was  makin'  himsel  a'  the  time,"  says  one  of  his 
companions,  "but  he  didna  ken,  maybe,  what  he 
was  about  till  years  had  passed.  At  first  he 
thought  o'  little,  I  dare  say,  but  the  queerness  and 
the  fun."  The  honest  writer  to  the  signet  does 
not  seem  to  have  thought  it  either  so  funny  or  so 
profitable;  for  on  his  son's  return  from  one  of 
these  raids,  as  he  styled  them,  the  old  gentleman 
peevishly  inquired  how  he  had  been  living  so  long. 
"Pretty  much  like  the  young  ravens,"  answered 
Walter ;  "  I  only  wished  I  had  been  as  good  a 
player  on  the  flute  as  poor  George  Primrose  in 
the  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  If  I  had  his  art,  I  should 
like  nothing  better  than  to  tramp  like  him  from 
cottage  to  cottage  over  the  world."  "I  doubt," 
said  the  grave  clerk  to  the  signet,  "  I  greatly  doubt, 
sir,  you  were  born  for  nae  better  than  a  gangrel 
scrapegut!'^  Perhaps  even  the  revelation,  could 
it  have  been  made  to  him,  of  his  son's  future  liter- 
ary glory,  would  scarcely  have  satisfied  the  worthy 


186  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

father,  who  probably  would  have  regarded  a  seat 
on  the  bench  of  the  Court  of  Sessions  as  much 
higher  glory.  At  all  events,  this  was  not  far  from 
the  judgment  of  Dominie  Mitchell,  who,  in  his 
notice  of  his  illustrious  pupil,  "sincerely  regrets 
that  Sir  Walter's  precious  time  was  devoted  to 
the  dulce  rather  than  the  utile  of  composition,  and 
that  his  great  talents  should  have  been  wasted  on 
such  subjects! " 

It  is  impossible  to  glance  at  Scott's  early  life 
without  perceiving  how  powerfully  all  its  circum- 
stances, whether  accidental  or  contrived,  conspired 
to  train  him  for  the  peculiar  position  he  was  des- 
tined to  occupy  in  the  world  of  letters.  There 
never  was  a  character  in  whose  infant  germ  the 
mature  and  fully-developed  lineaments  might  be 
more  distinctly  traced.  What  he  was  in  his  riper 
age,  so  he  was  in  his  boyhood.  We  discern  the 
same  tastes,  the  same  peculiar  talents,  the  same 
social  temper  and  affections,  and,  in  a  great  de- 
gree, the  same  habits, — in  their  embryo  state,  of 
course,  but  distinctly  marked;  and  his  biographer 
has  shown  no  little  skill  in  enabling  us  to  trace  their 
gradual,  progressive  expansion  from  the  hour  of 
his  birth  up  to  the  full  prime  and  maturity  of  man- 
hood. 

In  1792,  Scott,  whose  original  destination  of  a 
writer  had  been  changed  to  that  of  an  advocate, — 
from  his  father's  conviction,  as  it  would  seem,  of 
the  superiority  of  his  talents  to  the  former  station, 
— ^was  admitted  to  the  Scottish  bar.  Here  he  con- 
tinued in  assiduous  attendance  during  the  regular 
terms,  but  more  noted  for  his  stories  in  the  Outer 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  187 

House  than  his  arguments  in  court.  It  may  ap- 
pear singular  that  a  person  so  gifted  both  as  a 
writer  and  as  a  raconteur  should  have  had  no  great- 
er success  in  his  profession.  But  the  case  is  not  un- 
common. Indeed,  experience  shows  that  the  most 
eminent  writers  have  not  made  the  most  successful 
speakers.  It  is  not  more  strange  than  that  a  good 
writer  of  novels  should  not  excel  as  a  dramatic 
author.  Perhaps  a  consideration  of  the  subject 
would  lead  us  to  refer  the  phenomena  in  both 
cases  to  the  same  principle.  At  all  events,  Scott 
was  an  exemplification  of  both,  and  we  leave  the 
solution  to  those  who  hare  more  leisure  and  inge- 
nuity to  unravel  the  mystery. 

Scott's  leisure,  in  the  mean  time,  was  well  em- 
ployed in  storing  his  mind  with  German  romance, 
with  whose  wild  fictions,  intrenching  on  the  gro- 
tesque, he  found  at  that  time  more  sympathy  than 
in  later  Hfe.  In  1796  he  first  appeared  before  the 
public  as  a  translator  of  Burger's  well-known  bal- 
lads, thrown  off  by  him  at  a  heat,  and  which  found 
favor  with  the  few  into  whose  hands  they  passed. 
He  subsequently  adventured  in  Monk  Lewis's 
crazy  bark,  "  Tales  of  Wonder,"  which  soon  went 
to  pieces,  leaving,  however,  among  its  surviving 
fragments  the  scattered  contributions  of  Scott. 

At  last,  in  1802,  he  gave  to  the  world  his  first 
two  volumes  of  the  "  Border  Minstrelsy,"  printed 
by  his  old  school-fellow  Ballantyne,  and  which,  by 
the  beauty  of  the  typography,  as  well  as  literary 
execution,  made  an  epoch  in  Scottish  literary  his- 
tory. There  was  no  work  of  Scott's  after-life 
which  showed  the  result  of  so  much  preliminary 


188  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

labor.  Before  ten  years  old,  he  had  collected  sev- 
eral volumes  of  ballads  and  traditions,  and  we  have 
seen  how  diligently  he  pursued  the  same  vocation 
in  later  years.  The  publication  was  admitted  to 
be  far  more  faithful,  as  well  as  skilfully  collated, 
than  its  prototype,  the  "  Reliques "  of  Bishop 
Percy;  while  his  notes  contained  a  mass  of  anti- 
quarian information  relative  to  border  life,  con- 
veyed in  a  style  of  beauty  unprecedented  in  topics 
of  this  kind,  and  enlivened  with  a  higher  interest 
than  poetic  fiction.  Percy's  "  Reliques  "  had  pre- 
pared the  way  for  the  kind  reception  of  the  "  Min- 
strelsy," by  the  general  relish — notwithstanding 
Dr.  Johnson's  protest — it  had  created  for  the  sim- 
ple pictures  of  a  pastoral  and  heroic  time.  Burns 
had  since  familiarized  the  English  ear  with  the 
Doric  melodies  of  his  native  land ;  and  now  a  great- 
er than  Burns  appeared,  whose  first  production,  by 
a  singular  chance,  came  into  the  world  in  the  very 
year  in  which  the  Ayrshire  minstrel  was  with- 
drawn from  it,  as  if  Nature  had  intended  that 
the  chain  of  poetic  inspiration  should  not  be 
broken. 

The  delight  of  the  public  was  farther  augmented 
on  the  appearance  of  the  third  volume  of  the 
"  Minstrelsy,"  containing  various  imitations  of  the 
old  ballad,  which  displayed  the  rich  fashion  of  the 
antique,  purified  from  the  mould  and  rust  by 
which  the  beauties  of  such  weather-beaten  trophies 
are  defaced. 

The  first  edition  of  the  "  Minstrelsy,"  consisting 
of  eight  hundred  copies,  went  off,  as  Lockhart 
tells  us,  in  less  than  a  year;  and  the  poet,  on  the 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  189 

publication  of  a  second,  received  jfive  hundred 
pounds  sterling  from  Longman, — an  enormous 
price  for  such  a  commodity,  but  the  best  bargain, 
probably,  that  the  bookseller  ever  made,  as  the  sub- 
sequent sale  has  since  extended  to  twenty  thousand 
copies. 

Scott  was  not  in  great  haste  to  follow  up  his 
success.  It  was  three  years  later  before  he  took 
the  field  as  an  independent  author,  in  a  poem  which 
at  once  placed  him  among  the  great  original 
writers  of  his  country.  The  "  Lay  of  the  Last 
Minstrel,"  a  complete  expansion  of  the  ancient 
ballad  into  an  epic  form,  was  published  in  1805. 
It  was  opening  a  new  creation  in  the  realm  of 
fancy.  It  seemed  as  if  the  author  had  transfused 
into  his  page  the  strong  delineations  of  the  Ho- 
meric pencil,  the  rude  but  generous  gallantry  of 
a  primitive  period,  softened  by  the  more  airy  and 
magical  inventions  of  Italian  romance,*  and  con- 
veyed in  tones  of  natural  melody  such  as  had  not 
been  heard  since  the  strains  of  Burns.  The  book 
speedily  found  that  unprecedented  circulation 
which  all  his  subsequent  compositions  attained. 
Other  writers  had  addressed  themselves  to  a  more 
peculiar  and  limited  feeling, — to  a  narrower  and, 

*  "  Mettendo  lo  Turpin,  lo  metto  anch'  io," 
says  Ariosto,  playfully,  when  he  tells  a  particularly  tough  story. 

"  I  cannot  tell  how  the  truth  may  be, 
I  say  the  tale  as  'twas  said  to  me," 

says  the  author  of  the  "  Lay "  on  a  similar  occasion.  The  resem- 
blance might  be  traced  much  farther  than  mere  forms  of  expres- 
sion, to  the  Italian,  who,  like 

"  The  Ariosto  of  the  North, 
Sung  ladye-love,  and  war,  romance,  and  knightly  worth." 


190  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

generally,  a  more  select  audience.  But  Scott  was 
found  to  combine  all  the  qualities  of  interest  for 
every  order.  He  drew  from  the  pure  springs 
which  gush  forth  in  every  heart.  His  narrative 
chained  every  reader's  attention  by  the  stirring 
variety  of  its  incidents,  while  the  fine  touches  of 
sentiment  with  which  it  abounded,  like  wild  flowers 
springing  up  spontaneously  around,  were  full  of 
freshness  and  beauty  that  made  one  wonder  others 
should  not  have  stooped  to  gather  them  before. 

The  success  of  the  "  Lay"  determined  the  course 
of  its  author's  future  life.  Notwithstanding  his 
punctual  attention  to  his  profession,  his  utmost 
profits  for  any  one  year  of  the  ten  he  had  been 
in  practice  had  not  exceeded  two  hundred  and 
thirty  pounds;  and  of  late  they  had  sensibly  de- 
clined. Latterly,  indeed,  he  had  coquetted  some- 
what too  openly  with  the  Muse  for  his  pro- 
fessional reputation.  Themis  has  always  been 
found  a  stern  and  jealous  mistress,  chary  of  dis- 
pensing her  golden  favors  to  those  who  are 
seduced  into  a  flirtation  with  her  more  volatile 
sister. 

Scott,  however,  soon  found  himself  in  a  situa- 
tion that  made  him  independent  of  her  favors.  His 
income  from  the  two  offices  to  which  he  was  pro- 
moted, of  Sheriff  of  Selkirk,  and  Clerk  of  the 
Court  of  Sessions,  was  so  ample,  combined  with 
what  fell  to  him  by  inheritance  and  marriage,  that 
he  was  left  at  liberty  freely  to  consult  his  own 
tastes.  Amid  the  seductions  of  poetry,  however, 
he  never  shrunk  from  his  burdensome  professional 
duties ;  and  he  submitted  to  all  their  drudgery  with 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  191 

unflinching  constancy  when  the  labors  of  his  pen 
made  the  emoluments  almost  beneath  considera- 
tion. He  never  reUshed  the  idea  of  being  divorced 
from  active  life  by  the  solitary  occupations  of  a 
recluse.  And  his  official  functions,  however  se- 
verely they  taxed  his  time,  may  be  said  to  have  in 
some  degree  compensated  him  by  the  new  scenes 
of  life  which  they  were  constantly  disclosing, — the 
very  materials  of  those  fictions  on  which  his  fame 
and  his  fortune  were  to  be  built. 

Scott's  situation  was  eminent^  propitious  to  lit- 
erary pursuits.  He  was  married,  and  passed  the 
better  portion  of  the  year  in  the  country,  where 
the  quiet  pleasures  of  his  fireside  circle,  and  a  keen 
relish  for  rural  sports,  relieved  his  mind  and  in- 
vigorated both  health  and  spirits.  In  early  life,  it 
seems,  he  had  been  crossed  in  love ;  and,  like  Dante 
and  BjTon,  to  whom  in  this  respect  he  is  often  com- 
pared, he  had  more  than  once,  according  to  his 
biographer,  shadowed  forth  in  his  verses  the  ob- 
ject of  his  unfortunate  passion.  He  does  not 
appear  to  have  taken  it  very  seriously,  however, 
nor  to  have  shown  the  morbid  sensibility  in  relation 
to  it  discovered  by  both  Byron  and  Dante,  whose 
stern  and  solitary  natures  were  cast  in  a  very  dif- 
ferent mould  from  the  social  temper  of  Scott. 

His  next  great  poem  was  his  "  Marmion,"  tran- 
scending, in  the  judgment  of  many,  all  his  other 
epics,  and  containing,  in  the  judgment  of  all,  pas- 
sages of  poetic  fire  which  he  never  equalled,  but 
which,  nevertheless,  was  greeted  on  its  entrance 
into  the  world  by  a  critique,  in  the  leading  journal 
of  the  day,  of  the  most  caustic  and  unfriendly 


192  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

temper.  The  journal  was  the  Edinburgh,  to  which 
he  had  been  a  frequent  contributor,  and  the  re- 
viewer was  his  intimate  friend,  Jeffrey.  The  un- 
kindest  cut  in  the  article  was  the  imputation  of  a 
neglect  of  Scottish  character  and  feeling.  "  There 
is  scarcely  one  trait  of  true  Scottish  nationality 
or  patriotism  introduced  into  the  whole  poem ;  and 
Mr.  Scott's  only  expression  of  admiration  for  the 
beautiful  country  to  which  he  belongs  is  put,  if  we 
rightly  remember,  into  the  mouth  of  one  of  his 
Southern  favorites."    This  of  Walter  Scott ! 

Scott  was  not  slow,  after  this,  in  finding  the  po- 
litical principles  of  the  Edinburgh  so  repugnant 
to  his  own  ( and  they  certainly  were  as  opposite  as 
the  poles)  that  he  first  dropped  the  journal,  and 
next  labored  with  unwearied  diligence  to  organize 
another,  whose  main  purpose  should  be  to  counter- 
act the  heresies  of  the  former.  This  was  the  origin 
of  the  London  Quarterly,  more  imputable  to 
Scott's  exertions  than  to  those  of  any,  indeed  all, 
other  persons.  The  result  has  been,  doubtless, 
highly  serviceable  to  the  interests  of  both  morals 
and  letters.  Not  that  the  new  Review  was  con- 
ducted with  more  fairness,  or,  in  this  sense,  prin- 
ciple, than  its  antagonist.  A  remark  of  Scott's 
own,  in  a  letter  to  Ellis,  shows  with  how  much  prin- 
ciple. "  I  have  run  up  an  attempt  on  *  The  Curse 
of  Kehama '  for  the  Quarterly.  It  affords  cruel 
openings  to  the  quizzers,  and  I  suppose  will  get  it 
roundly  in  the  Edinburgh  Review.  I  would  have 
made  a  very  different  hand  of  it,  indeed,  had  the 
order  of  the  day  been  pour  dechirer."  But,  al- 
though the  fate  of  the  individual  was  thus,  to  a 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  193 

certain  extent,  a  matter  of  caprice,  or,  rather,  pre- 
judgment, in  the  critic,  yet  the  great  abstract  ques- 
tions in  morals,  pohtics,  and  hterature,  by  being 
discussed  on  both  sides,  were  presented  in  a  fuller 
and,  of  course,  fairer  light  to  the  public.  Another 
beneficial  result  to  letters  was — and  we  shall  gain 
credit,  at  least,  for  candor  in  confessing  it — that 
it  broke  down  somewhat  of  that  divinity  which 
hedged  in  the  despotic  we  of  the  reviewer  so  long 
as  no  rival  arose  to  contest  the  sceptre.  The  claims 
to  infallibility,  so  long  and  slavishly  acquiesced  in, 
fell  to  the  ground  when  thus  stoutly  asserted  by 
conflicting  parties.  It  was  pretty  clear  that  the 
same  thing  could  not  be  all  black  and  all  white  at 
the  same  time.  In  short,  it  was  the  old  story  of 
pope  and  anti-pope ;  and  the  public  began  to  find 
out  that  there  might  be  hopes  for  the  salvation  of 
an  author  though  damned  by  the  literary  pope- 
dom. Time,  by  reversing  many  of  its  decisions, 
must  at  length  have  shown  the  same  thing. 

But  to  return.  Scott  showed  how  nearly  he  had 
been  touched  to  the  quick  by  two  other  acts  not  so 
discreet.  These  were,  the  establishment  of  an  An- 
nual Register,  and  of  the  great  publishing  house 
of  the  Ballantynes,  in  which  he  became  a  silent 
partner.  The  last  step  involved  him  in  grievous 
embarrassments,  and  stimulated  him  to  exertions 
which  required  "  a  frame  of  adamant  and  soul  of 
fire."  At  the  same  time,  we  find  him  overwhelmed 
with  poetical,  biographical,  historical,  and  critical 
compositions,  together  vAih  editorial  labors  of  ap- 
palling magnitude.  In  this  multiplication  of  him- 
self in  a  thousand  forms  we  see  him  always  the 

Vol.  I.— 13 


194.  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

same,  vigorous  and  eifective.  "  Poetry,"  he  says 
in  one  of  his  letters,  "  is  a  scourging  crop,  and 
ought  not  to  be  hastily  repeated.  Editing,  there- 
fore, may  be  considered  as  a  green  crop  of  turnips 
or  pease,  extremely  useful  to  those  whose  circum- 
stances do  not  admit  of  giving  their  farm  a  sum- 
mer fallow."  It  might  be  regretted,  however,  that 
he  should  have  wasted  powers  fitted  for  so  much 
liigher  culture  on  the  coarse  products  of  a  kitchen 
garden,  which  might  have  been  safely  trusted  to 
inferior  hands. 

In  1811,  Scott  gave  to  the  world  his  exquisite 
poem,  "  The  Lady  of  the  Lake."  One  of  his  fair 
friends  had  remonstrated  with  him  on  thus  risking 
again  the  laurel  he  had  already  won.  He  replied, 
with  characteristic  and,  indeed,  prophetic  spirit, 
"  If  I  fail,  I  will  write  prose  all  my  life.  But  if  I 
succeed, 

'  Up   wa'  the  bonnie   blue  bonnet. 
The  dirk  an'  the  feather  an'  a' !' " 

In  his  eulogy  on  Byron,  Scott  remarks,  "  There 
has  been  no  reposing  under  the  shade  of  his  lau- 
rels, no  living  upon  the  resource  of  past  reputa- 
tion; none  of  that  coddling  and  petty  precaution 
which  little  authors  call  '  taking  care  of  their 
fame.'  Byron  let  his  fame  take  care  of  itself." 
Scott  could  not  have  more  accurately  described  his 
own  character. 

The  "  Lady  of  the  Lake  "  was  welcomed  with 
an  enthusiasm  surpassing  that  which  attended  any 
other  of  his  poems.  It  seemed  like  the  sweet 
breathings  of  his  native  pibroch,  stealing  over  glen 
and  mountain,  and  calling  up  all  the  deHcious  as- 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  195 

sociations  of  rural  solitude,  which  beautifully  con- 
trasted with  the  din  of  battle  and  the  shrill  cry  of 
the  war-trumpet  that  stirred  the  soul  in  every  page 
of  his  "  JNIarmion."  The  publication  of  this  work 
carried  his  fame  as  a  poet  to  its  most  brilliant 
height.  The  post-horse  duty  rose  to  an  extraordi- 
nary degree  in  Scotland,  from  the  eagerness  of 
travellers  to  visit  the  localities  of  the  poem.  A 
more  substantial  evidence  was  afforded  in  its 
amazing  circulation,  and,  consequently,  its  profits. 
The  press  could  scarcely  keep  pace  with  the  public 
demand,  and  no  less  than  fifty  thousand  copies  of 
it  have  been  sold  since  the  date  of  its  appearance. 
The  successful  author  received  more  than  two 
thousand  guineas  from  his  production.  Milton 
received  ten  pounds  for  the  two  editions  which  he 
lived  to  see  of  his  "  Paradise  Lost."  The  Ayrshire 
bard  had  sighed  for  "  a  lass  wi'  a  tocher."  Scott 
had  now  found  one  where  it  was  hardly  to  be  ex- 
pected, in  the  Muse. 

While  the  poetical  fame  of  Scott  was  thus  at  its 
zenith,  a  new  star  rose  above  the  horizon,  whose 
eccentric  course  and  dazzling  radiance  completely 
bewildered  the  spectator.  In  1812,  "  Childe  Har- 
old "  appeared,  and  the  attention  seemed  to  be  now 
called  for  the  first  time  from  the  outward  form 
of  man  and  visible  nature  to  the  secret  depths  of 
the  soul.  The  darkest  recesses  of  human  passion 
were  laid  open,  and  the  note  of  sorrow  was  pro- 
longed in  tones  of  agonized  sensibility,  the  more 
touching  as  coming  from  one  who  was  placed  on 
those  dazzling  heights  of  rank  and  fashion  which, 
to  the  vulgar  eye  at  least,  seem  to  lie  in  unclouded 


196  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

sunshine.  Those  of  the  present  generation  who 
have  heard  only  the  same  key  thrummed  ad  nau- 
seam by  the  feeble  imitators  of  his  lordship  can 
form  no  idea  of  the  effect  produced  when  the 
chords  were  first  swept  by  the  master's  fingers.  It 
was  found  impossible  for  the  ear,  once  attuned  to 
strains  of  such  compass  and  ravishing  harmony,  to 
return  with  the  same  relish  to  purer,  it  might  be, 
but  tamer  melody;  and  the  sweet  voice  of  the 
Scottish  minstrel  lost  much  of  its  power  to  charm, 
let  him  charm  never  so  wisely.  While  "  Rokeby  " 
was  in  preparation,  bets  were  laid  on  the  rival  can- 
didates by  the  wits  of  the  day.  The  sale  of  this 
poem,  though  great,  showed  a  sensible  decline  in 
the  popularity  of  its  author.  This  became  still 
more  evident  on  the  publication  of  "  The  Lord  of 
the  Isles ;  "  and  Scott  admitted  the  conviction  with 
his  characteristic  spirit  and  good  nature.  "  '  Well, 
James  '  "  (he  said  to  his  printer) ,  "  '  I  have  given 
you  a  week — ^what  are  people  saying  about  the 
Lord  of  the  Isles? '  I  hesitated  a  little,  after  the 
fashion  of  Gil  Bias,  but  he  speedily  brought  the 
matter  to  a  point.  '  Come,'  he  said,  '  speak  out, 
my  good  fellow;  what  has  put  it  into  your  head 
to  be  on  so  much  ceremony  with  me  all  of  a  sud- 
den? But  I  see  how  it  is ;  the  result  is  given  in  one 
word, — Disap2)ointment/  My  silence  admitted 
his  inference  to  the  fullest  extent.  His  counte- 
nance certainly  did  look  rather  blank  for  a  few 
seconds ;  in  truth,  he  had  been  wholly  unprepared 
for  the  event.  At  length  he  said,  with  perfect 
cheerfulness, '  Well,  well,  James,  so  be  it ;  but  you 
laiow  we  must  not  droop,  for  we  can't  afford  to 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  197 

give  over.  Since  one  line  has  failed,  we  must  stick 
to  something  else.'  "  This  something  else  was  a 
mine  he  had  already  hit  upon,  of  invention  and 
substantial  wealth,  such  as  Thomas  the  Rhymer, 
or  Michael  Scott,  or  any  other  adept  in  the  black 
art  had  never  dreamed  of. 

Everybody  knows  the  story  of  the  composition 
of  "  Waverley," — the  most  interesting  story  in  the 
annals  of  letters, — and  how,  some  ten  years  after 
its  commencement,  it  was  fished  out  of  some  old 
lumber  in  an  attic  and  completed  in  a  few  weeks 
for  the  press  in  1814.  Its  appearance  marks  a 
more  distinct  epoch  in  Enghsh  literature  than  that 
of  the  poetry  of  its  author.  All  previous  attempts 
in  the  same  school  of  fiction — a  school  of  Enghsh 
growth — had  been  cramped  by  the  limited  infor- 
mation or  talent  of  the  writers.  Smollett  had  pro- 
duced his  spirited  sea-pieces,  and  Fielding  his 
warm  sketches  of  country  life,  both  of  them  mixed 
up  with  so  much  Billingsgate  as  required  a  strong 
flavor  of  wit  to  make  them  tolerable.  Richardson 
had  covered  acres  of  canvas  with  his  faithful  fam- 
ily pictures.  Mrs.  RadclifFe  had  dipped  up  to  the 
elbows  in  horrors;  while  Miss  Burney's  fashion- 
able gossip,  and  Miss  Edgeworth's  Hogarth  draw- 
ings of  the  prose — not  the  poetry — of  life  and 
character,  had  each  and  all  found  favor  in  their 
respective  ways.  But  a  work  now  appeared  in 
which  the  author  swept  over  the  whole  range  of 
character  with  entire  freedom  as  well  as  fidelity, 
ennobling  the  whole  by  high  historic  associations, 
and  in  a  style  varying  with  his  theme,  but  whose 
pure  and  classic  flow  was  tinctured  with  just  so 


198  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND  * 

much  of  poetic  coloring  as  suited  the  purposes  of 
romance.    It  was  Shakspeare  in  prose. 

The  work  was  published,  as  we  know,  anony- 
mously. Mr.  Gillies  states,  however,  that,  while 
in  the  press,  fragments  of  it  were  communicated 
to  "  Mr.  Mackenzie,  Dr.  Brown,  Mrs.  Hamilton, 
and  other  savans  or  savantes^  whose  dicta  on  the 
merits  of  a  new  novel  were  considered  unimpeach- 
able." By  their  approbation  "  a  strong  body  of 
friends  was  formed,  and  the  curiosity  of  the  pub- 
lic prepared  the  way  for  its  reception."  This  may 
explain  the  rapidity  with  which  the  anonymous 
publication  rose  into  a  degree  of  favor  which, 
though  not  less  surely,  perhaps,  it  might  have  been 
more  slow  in  achieving.  The  author  jealously  pre- 
served his  incognito,  and,  in  order  to  heighten  the 
mystification,  flung  off  almost  simultaneously  a 
variety  of  works,  in  prose  and  poetry,  any  one  of 
which  might  have  been  the  labor  of  months.  The 
public  for  a  moment  was  at  fault.  There  seemed 
to  be  six  Richmonds  in  the  field.  The  world,  there- 
fore, was  reduced  to  the  dilemma  of  either  sup- 
posing that  half  a  dozen  different  hands  could 
work  in  precisely  the  same  style,  or  that  one  could 
do  the  work  of  half  a  dozen.  With  time,  however, 
the  veil  wore  thinner  and  thinner,  until  at  length, 
and  long  before  the  ingenious  argument  of  Mr. 
Adolphus,  there  was  scarcely  a  critic  so  purblind 
as  not  to  discern  behind  it  the  features  of  the 
mighty  minstrel. 

Constable  had  offered  seven  hundred  pounds  for 
the  new  novel.  "  It  was,"  says  Mr.  Lockhart,  *'  ten 
times  as  much  as  Miss  Edge  worth  ever  realized 


LUCY  OP  LAMMEBMOOB. 


.aOOMflaMKAJ  %0  YDUa 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  199 

from  any  of  her  popular  Irish  tales."  Scott  de- 
clined the  offer,  which  had  been  a  good  one  for  the 
bookseller  had  he  made  it  as  many  thousand.  But 
it  passed  the  art  of  necromancy  to  divine  this. 

Scott,  once  entered  on  this  new  career,  followed 
it  up  with  an  energy  unrivalled  in  the  history  of 
Hterature.  The  public  mind  was  not  suffered  to 
cool  for  a  moment,  before  its  attention  was  called 
to  another  miracle  of  creation  from  the  same  hand. 
Even  illness,  that  would  have  broken  the  spirits  of 
most  men,  as  it  prostrated  the  physical  energies 
of  Scott,  opposed  no  impediment  to  the  march  of 
composition.  When  he  could  no  longer  write  he 
could  dictate,  and  in  this  way,  amid  the  agonies  of  a 
racking  disease,  he  composed  "  The  Bride  of  Lam- 
mermoor,"  the  "  Legend  of  Montrose,"  and  a 
great  part  of  "  Ivanhoe."  The  first,  indeed,  is 
darkened  with  those  deep  shadows  that  might  seem 
thrown  over  it  by  the  sombre  condition  of  its  au- 
thor. But  what  shall  we  say  of  the  imperturbable 
dry  humor  of  the  gallant  Captain  Dugald  Dal- 
getty  of  Drumthwacket,  or  of  the  gorgeous  revel- 
ries of  Ivanhoe, — 

"  Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 
On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream," — 

what  shall  we  say  of  such  brilliant  day-dreams  for 
a  bed  of  torture?  Never  before  had  the  spirit  tri- 
umphed over  such  agonies  of  the  flesh.  "  The  best 
way,"  said  Scott,  in  one  of  his  talks  with  Gillies, 
*'  is,  if  possible,  to  triumph  over  disease  by  setting 
it  at  defiance;  somewhat  on  the  same  principle  as 
one  avoids  being  stung  by  boldly  grasping  a 
nettle." 


200  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

The  prose  fictions  were  addressed  to  a  much 
larger  audience  than  the  poems  could  be.  They 
had  attractions  for  every  age  and  every  class.  The 
profits,  of  course,  were  commensurate.  Arithme- 
tic has  never  been  so  severely  taxed  as  in  the  com- 
putation of  Scott's  productions  and  the  proceeds 
resulting  from  them.  In  one  year  he  received  (or, 
more  properly,  was  credited  with,  for  it  is  some- 
what doubtful  how  much  he  actually  received)  fif- 
teen thousand  pounds  for  his  novels,  comprehend- 
ing the  first  edition  and  the  copyright.  The  dis- 
covery of  this  rich  mine  furnished  its  proprietor 
with  the  means  of  gratifying  the  fondest  and  even 
most  chimerical  desires.  He  had  always  coveted 
the  situation  of  a  lord  of  acres, — a  Scottish  laird, — 
where  his  passion  for  planting  might  find  scope  in 
the  creation  of  whole  forests, — for  every  thing 
with  him  was  on  a  magnificent  scale, — and  where 
he  might  indulge  the  kindly  feelings  of  his  nature 
in  his  benevolent  offices  to  a  numerous  and  depend- 
ent tenantry.  The  few  acres  of  the  original  pur- 
chase now  swelled  into  hundreds,  and,  for  aught 
we  know,  thousands;  for  one  tract  alone  we  find 
incidentally  noticed  as  costing  thirty  thousand 
pounds.  "  It  rounds  off  the  property  so  hand- 
somely," he  says,  in  one  of  his  letters.  There 
was  always  a  corner  to  "  round  off."  The  man- 
sion, in  the  meantime,  from  a  simple  cottage  ornee 
was  amplified  into  the  dimensions  almost,  as  well 
as  the  bizarre  proportions,  of  some  old  feudal  cas- 
tle. The  furniture  and  decorations  were  of  the 
costliest  kind ;  the  wainscots  of  oak  and  cedar ;  the 
floors  tessellated  with  marbles,  or  woods  of  differ- 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  201 

ent  dyes ;  the  ceilings  fretted  and  carved  with  the 
delicate  tracery  of  a  Gothic  abbey ;  the  storied  win- 
dows blazoned  with  the  riclily-colored  insignia  of 
heraldry,  the  walls  garnished  with  time-honored 
trophies,  or  curious  specimens  of  art,  or  volumes 
sumptuously  bound, — in  short,  with  all  that  luxury 
could  demand  or  ingenuity  devise ;  while  a  copious 
reservoir  of  gas  supplied  every  corner  of  the  man- 
sion with  such  fountains  of  light  as  must  have  puz- 
zled the  genius  of  the  lamp  to  provide  for  the  less 
fortunate  Aladdin. 

Scott's  exchequer  must  have  been  seriously  taxed 
in  another  form  by  the  crowds  of  visitors  whom 
he  entertained  under  his  hospitable  roof.  There 
was  scarcely  a  person  of  note,  or,  to  say  truth,  not 
of  note,  who  visited  that  country  without  paying 
his  respects  to  the  Lion  of  Scotland.  Lockhart 
reckons  up  a  full  sixth  of  the  British  peerage  who 
had  been  there  within  his  recollection ;  and  Captain 
Hall,  in  his  amusing  Notes,  remarks  that  it  was 
not  unusual  for  a  dozen  or  more  coach-loads  to 
find  their  way  into  his  grounds  in  the  course  of  the 
day,  most  of  whom  found  or  forced  an  entrance 
into  the  mansion.  Such  was  the  heavy  tax  paid 
by  his  celebrity,  and,  we  may  add,  his  good  nature ; 
for  if  the  one  had  been  a  whit  less  than  the  other 
he  could  never  have  tolerated  such  a  nuisance. 

The  cost  of  his  correspondence  gives  one  no  light 
idea  of  the  demands  made  on  his  time,  as  well  as 
purse,  in  another  form.  His  postage  for  letters, 
independently  of  franks,  by  which  a  large  portion 
of  it  was  covered,  amounted  to  a  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds,  it  seems,  in  the  course  of  the  year.     In 


BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

this,  indeed,  should  be  included  ten  pounds  for  a 
pair  of  unfortunate  Cherokee  Lovers^  sent  all  the 
way  from  our  own  happy  land  in  order  to  be 
godfathered  by  Sir  Walter  on  the  London  boards. 
Perhaps  the  smart-money  he  had  to  pay  on 
this  interesting  occasion  had  its  influence  in 
mixing  up  rather  more  acid  than  was  natural 
to  him  in  his  judgments  of  our  countrymen. 
At  all  events,  the  Yankees  find  little  favor  on 
the  few  occasions  on  which  he  has  glanced 
at  them  in  his  correspondence.  "  I  am  not  at  all 
surprised,"  he  says,  in  a  letter  to  Miss  Edgeworth, 
"  I  am  not  at  all  surprised  at  what  you  say  of  the 
Yankees.  They  are  a  people  possessed  of  very 
considerable  energy,  quickened  and  brought  into 
eager  action  by  an  honorable  love  of  their  country 
and  pride  in  their  institutions ;  but  they  are  as  yet 
rude  in  their  ideas  of  social  intercourse,  and  totally 
ignorant,  speaking  generally,  of  all  the  art  of  good 
breeding,  which  consists  chiefly  in  a  postponement 
of  one's  own  petty  wishes  or  comforts  to  those  of 
others.  By  rude  questions  and  observations,  an 
absolute  disrespect  to  other  people's  feelings,  and 
a  ready  indulgence  of  their  own,  they  make  one 
feverish  in  their  company,  though  perhaps  you 
may  be  ashamed  to  confess  the  reason.  But  this 
will  wear  off,  and  is  already  wearing  away.  Men, 
when  they  have  once  got  benches,  wiU  soon  fall  into 
the  use  of  cushions.  They  are  advancing  in  the  lists 
of  our  literature,  and  they  will  not  be  long  deficient 
in  the  petite  morale,  especially  as  they  have,  like 
ourselves,  the  rage  for  travelling."  On  another 
occasion,  he  does,  indeed,  admit  having  met  with, 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  203 

in  the  course  of  his  life,  "  four  or  five  well-lettered 
Americans,  ardent  in  pursuit  of  knowledge,  and 
free  from  the  ignorance  and  forward  presumption 
which  distinguish  many  of  their  countrymen." 
This  seems  hard  measure;  but  perhaps  we  should 
find  it  difiicult,  among  the  many  who  have  visited 
this  country,  to  recollect  as  great  a  number  of 
Englishmen — and  Scotchmen  to  boot — entitled  to 
a  higher  degree  of  commendation.  It  can  hardlj-- 
be  that  the  well-informed  and  well-bred  men  of 
both  countries  make  a  point  of  staying  at  home; 
so  we  suppose  we  must  look  for  the  solution  of 
the  matter  in  the  existence  of  some  disagreeable  in- 
gredient, common  to  the  characters  of  both  nations, 
sprouting,  as  they  do,  from  a  common  stock,  which 
remains  latent  at  home,  and  is  never  fully  disclosed 
till  they  get  into  a  foreign  climate.  But,  as  this 
problem  seems  pregnant  with  philosophical,  physi- 
ological, and,  for  aught  we  know,  psychological 
matter,  we  have  not  courage  for  it  here,  but  recom- 
mend the  solution  to  Miss  Martineau,  to  whom  it 
will  afford  a  very  good  title  for  a  new  chapter  in 
her  next  edition.  The  strictures  we  have  quoted, 
however,  to  speak  more  seriously,  are  worth  at- 
tending to,  coming  as  they  do  from  a  shrewd  ob- 
server, and  one  whose  judgments,  though  here 
somewhat  colored,  no  doubt,  by  pohtical  prejudice, 
are  in  the  main  distinguished  by  a  sound  and 
hberal  philanthropy.  But  were  he  ten  times  an 
enemy,  we  would  say,  "  Fas  est  ab  hoste  doceri." 

With  the  splendid  picture  of  the  baronial  resi- 
dence at  Abbotsford,  Mr.  Lockhart  closes  all  that 
at  this  present  writing  we  have  received  of  his  de- 


204  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

lightf ul  work  in  this  country ;  and  in  the  last  sen- 
tence the  melancholy  sound  of  "  the  muffled  drum  " 
gives  ominous  warning  of  what  we  are  to  expect 
in  the  sixth  and  concluding  volume.  In  the  dearth 
of  more  authentic  information,  we  will  piece  out 
our  sketch  with  a  few  facts  gleaned  from  the  some- 
what meagre  bill  of  fare — meagre  by  comparison 
with  the  rich  banquet  of  the  true  Amphitryon — 
afforded  by  the  "  Recollections  "  of  Mr.  Robert 
Pierce  Gillies. 

The  unbounded  popularity  of  the  Waverley 
Novels  led  to  still  more  extravagant  anticipations 
on  the  part  both  of  the  pubHshers  and  author. 
Some  hints  of  a  falling  off,  though  but  slightly,  in 
the  public  favor,  were  unheeded  by  both  parties, 
though,  to  say  truth,  the  exact  state  of  things  was 
never  disclosed  to  Scott,  it  being  Ballantyne's  no- 
tion that  it  would  prove  a  damper,  and  that  the 
true  course  was  "  to  press  on  more  sail  as  the  wind 
lulled."  In  these  sanguine  calculations,  not  only 
enormous  sums,  or,  to  speak  correctly,  bills,  were 
given  for  what  had  been  written,  but  the  author's 
drafts,  to  the  amount  of  many  thousand  pounds, 
were  accepted  by  Constable  in  favor  of  works  the 
very  embryos  of  which  lay,  not  only  unformed,  but 
unimagined,  in  the  womb  of  time.  In  return  for 
this  singular  accommodation,  Scott  was  induced  to 
endorse  the  drafts  of  his  publisher,  and  in  this  way 
an  amount  of  liabilities  was  incurred  which,  con- 
sidering the  character  of  the  house  and  its  transac- 
tions, it  is  altogether  inexplicable  that  a  person  in 
the  independent  position  of  Sir  Walter  Scott 
should  have  subjected  himself  to  for  a  moment. 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  205 

He  seems  to  have  had  entire  confidence  in  the  sta- 
bility of  the  firm,  a  confidence  to  which  it  seems, 
from  Mr.  Gilhes's  account,  not  to  have  been  enti- 
tled from  the  first  moment  of  his  connection  with 
it.  The  great  reputation  of  the  house,  however, 
the  success  and  magnitude  of  some  of  its  transac- 
tions, especially  the  publication  of  these  novels, 
gave  it  a  large  credit,  which  enabled  it  to  go  for- 
ward with  a  great  show  of  prosperity  in  ordinary 
times,  and  veiled  its  tottering  state  probably  from 
Constable's  own  eyes.  It  is  but  the  tale  of  yester- 
day. The  case  of  Constable  &  Co.  is,  unhappily,  a 
very  familiar  one  to  us.  But  when  the  hurricane 
of  1825  came  on,  it  swept  away  all  those  buildings 
that  were  not  founded  on  a  rock,  and  those  of 
Messrs.  Constable,  among  others,  soon  became  lit- 
erally mere  castles  in  the  air:  in  plain  English,  the 
firm  stopped  payment.  The  assets  were  very 
trifling  in  comparison  with  the  debts;  and  Sir 
Walter  Scott  was  found  on  their  paper  to  the 
frightful  amount  of  one  hundred  thousand 
pounds ! 

His  conduct  on  the  occasion  was  precisely  what 
was  to  have  been  anticipated  from  one  who  had 
declared,  on  a  similar  though  much  less  appalling 
conjuncture,  "  I  am  always  ready  to  make  any  sac- 
rifices to  do  justice  to  my  engagements,  and  would 
rather  sell  any  thing,  or  every  thing,  than  be  less 
than  a  true  man  to  the  world."  He  put  up  his 
house  and  furniture  in  towTi  at  auction,  delivered 
over  his  personal  efi'ects  at  Abbotsford,  his  plate, 
books,  furniture,  etc.,  to  be  held  in  trust  for  his 
creditors  (the  estate  itself  had  been  recently  se- 


206  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

cured  to  his  son  on  occasion  of  his  marriage) ,  and 
bound  himself  to  discharge  a  certain  amount  an- 
nually of  the  liabilities  of  the  insolvent  firm.  He 
then,  with  his  characteristic  energy,  set  about  the 
performance  of  his  Herculean  task.  He  took  lodg- 
ings in  a  third-rate  house  in  St.  David's  Street,  saw 
but  little  company,  abridged  the  hours  usually  de- 
voted to  his  meals  and  his  family,  gave  up  his 
ordinary  exercise,  and,  in  short,  adopted  the  severe 
habits  of  a  regular  Grub  Street  stipendiary. 

"  For  many  years,"  he  said  to  Mr.  Gillies,  "  I 
have  been  accustomed  to  hard  work,  because  I 
found  it  a  pleasure ;  now,  with  all  due  respect  for 
Falstaff's  principle,  *  nothing  on  compulsion,'  I 
certainly  will  not  shrink  from  work  because  it  has 
become  necessary." 

One  of  his  first  tasks  was  his  "Life  of  Bona- 
parte," achieved  in  the  space  of  thirteen  months. 
For  this  he  received  fourteen  thousand  pounds, 
about  eleven  hundred  per  month, — not  a  bad  bar- 
gain either,  as  it  proved,  for  the  publishers.  The 
first  two  volumes  of  the  nine  which  make  up  the 
English  edition  were  a  rifacimento  of  what  he  had 
before  compiled  for  the  "  Annual  Register." 
With  every  allowance  for  the  inaccuracies  and  the 
excessive  expansion  incident  to  such  a  flashing 
rapidity  of  execution,  the  work,  taking  into  view 
the  broad  range  of  its  topics,  its  shrewd  and  saga- 
cious reflections,  and  the  free,  bold  and  picturesque 
coloring  of  its  narration,  and,  above  all,  consider- 
ing the  brief  time  in  which  it  was  written,  is  indis- 
putably one  of  the  most  remarkable  monuments  of 
genius  and  industry — perhaps  the  most  remarka- 
ble— ever  recorded. 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  207 

Scott's  celebrity  made  every  thing  that  fell  from 
him,  however  trifling, — the  dew-drops  from  the 
hon's  mane, — of  value.  But  none  of  the  many  ad- 
ventures he  embarked  in,  or,  rather,  set  afloat, 
proved  so  profitable  as  the  republication  of  his 
novels  with  his  notes  and  illustrations.  As  he  felt 
his  own  strength  in  the  increasing  success  of  his 
labors,  he  appears  to  have  relaxed  somewhat  from 
them,  and  to  have  again  resumed  somewhat  of  his 
ancient  habits,  and,  in  a  mitigated  degree,  his  an- 
cient hospitality.  But  still  his  exertions  were  too 
severe,  and  pressed  heavily  on  the  springs  of  his 
health,  already  deprived  by  age  of  their  former 
elasticity  and  vigor.  At  length,  in  1831,  he  was 
overtaken  by  one  of  those  terrible  shocks  of  paraly- 
sis which  seem  to  have  been  constitutional  in  his 
family,  but  which,  with  more  precaution  and  under 
happier  auspices,  might  doubtless  have  been  post- 
poned, if  not  wholly  averted.  At  this  time  he  had 
in  the  short  space  of  little  more  than  five  years,  by 
his  sacrifices  and  efforts,  discharged  about  two- 
thirds  of  the  debt  for  which  he  was  responsible, — 
an  astonishing  result,  wholly  unparalleled  in  the 
history  of  letters.  There  is  something  inexpressi- 
bly painful  in  this  spectacle  of  a  generous  heart 
thus  courageously  contending  with  fortune,  bear- 
ing up  against  the  tide  with  unconquerable  spirit, 
and  finally  overwhelmed  by  it  just  within  reach  of 
shore. 

The  rest  of  his  story  is  one  of  humihation  and 
sorrow.  He  was  induced  to  take  a  voyage  to  the 
Continent  to  try  the  effect  of  a  more  genial  cli- 
mate.    Under  the  sunny  sky  of  Italy  he  seemed 


208  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

to  gather  new  strength  for  a  while ;  but  his  eye  fell 
with  indifference  on  the  venerable  monuments 
which  in  better  days  would  have  kindled  all  his  en- 
thusiasm. The  invalid  sighed  for  his  own  home  at 
Abbotsford.  The  heat  of  the  weather  and  the  fa- 
tigue of  rapid  travel  brought  on  another  shock, 
which  reduced  him  to  a  state  of  deplorable  im- 
becility. In  this  condition  he  returned  to  his  own 
halls,  where  the  sight  of  early  friends,  and  of  the 
beautiful  scenery,  the  creation,  as  it  were,  of  his 
own  hands,  seemed  to  impart  a  gleam  of  melan- 
choly satisfaction,  which  soon,  however,  sunk  into 
insensibility.  To  his  present  situation  might  well 
be  applied  the  exquisite  verses  which  he  indited  on 
another  melancholy  occasion: 

"  Yet  not  the  landscape  to  mine  eye 

Bears  those  bright  hues  that  once  it  bore; 
Though  Evening,  with  her  richest  dye, 
Flames  o'er  the  hills  of  Ettrick's  shore. 

"With  listless  look  along  the  plain 
I  see  Tweed's  silver  current  glide. 
And  coldly  mark  the  holy  fane 
Of  Melrose  rise  in  ruined  pride. 

"  The  quiet  lake,  the  balmy  air. 

The  hill,  the  stream,  the  tower,  the  tree, 
Are  they  still  such  as  once  they  were, 
Or  is  the  dreary  change  in  me?" 

Providence,  in  its  mercy,  did  not  suffer  the  shat- 
tered frame  long  to  outlive  the  glorious  spirit 
which  had  informed  it.  He  breathed  his  last  on 
the  21st  of  September,  1832.  His  remains  were 
deposited,  as  he  had  always  desired,  in  the  hoary 
abbey  of  Dryburgh,  and  the  pilgrim  from  many 
a  distant  clime  shall  repair  to  the  consecrated  spot 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  209 

so  long  as  the  reverence  for  exalted  genius  and 
worth  shall  survive  in  the  human  heart. 

This  sketch,  brief  as  we  could  make  it,  of  the 
literary  history  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  has  extended 
so  far  as  to  leave  but  little  space  for — what  Lock- 
hart's  volumes  aiFord  ample  materials  for — his 
personal  character.  Take  it  for  all  and  all,  it  is 
not  too  much  to  say  that  this  character  is  probably 
the  most  remarkable  on  record.  There  is  no  man 
of  historical  celebrity  that  we  now  recall,  who  com- 
bined in  so  eminent  a  degree  the  highest  qualities 
of  the  moral,  the  intellectual,  and  the  physical. 
He  united  in  his  own  character  what  hitherto  had 
been  found  incompatible.  Though  a  poet,  and 
living  in  an  ideal  world,  he  was  an  exact,  methodi- 
cal man  of  business;  though  achieving  with  the 
most  wonderful  facility  of  genius,  he  was  patient 
and  laborious;  a  mousing  antiquarian,  yet  with 
the  most  active  interest  in  the  present  and  what- 
ever was  going  on  around  him ;  with  a  strong  turn 
for  a  roving  life  and  military  adventure,  he  was 
yet  chained  to  his  desk  more  hours,  at  some  periods 
of  his  life,  than  a  monkish  recluse;  a  man  with  a 
heart  as  capacious  as  his  head ;  a  Tory,  brimful  of 
Jacobitism,  yet  full  of  sympathy  and  unaffected 
familiarity  with  all  classes,  even  the  humblest;  a 
successful  author,  without  pedantry  and  without 
conceit;  one,  indeed,  at  the  head  of  the  republic 
of  letters,  and  yet  with  a  lower  estimate  of  letters, 
as  compared  with  other  intellectual  pursuits,  than 
was  ever  hazarded  before. 

The  first  quality  of  his  character,  or,  rather,  that 
which  forms  the  basis  of  it,  as  of  all  great  char- 

VoL.  I.— 14 


210  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

acters,  was  his  energy.  We  see  it,  in  his  early- 
youth,  triumphing  over  the  impediments  of  nature, 
and,  in  spite  of  lameness,  making  him  conispicuous 
in  every  sort  of  athletic  exercise, — clambering  up 
dizzy  precipices,  wading  through  treacherous 
fords,  and  performing  feats  of  pedestrianism  that 
make  one's  joints  ache  to  read  of.  As  he  advanced 
in  life,  we  see  the  same  force  of  purpose  turned  to 
higher  objects.  A  striking  example  occurs  in  his 
organization  of  the  journals  and  the  publishing 
house  in  opposition  to  Constable.  In  what  Her- 
culean drudgery  did  not  this  latter  business,  in 
which  he  undertook  to  supply  matter  for  the  nim- 
ble press  of  Ballantyne,  involve  him!  while,  in 
addition  to  his  own  concerns,  he  had  to  drag  along 
by  his  solitary  momentum  a  score  of  heavier  under- 
takings, that  led  Lockhart  to  compare  him  to  a 
steam-engine  with  a  train  of  coal-wagons  hitched 
to  it.  "  Yes,"  said  Scott,  laughing,  and  making  a 
crashing  cut  with  his  axe  (for  they  were  feUing 
larches),  "and  there  was  a  cursed  lot  of  dung- 
carts  too." 

We  see  the  same  powerful  energies  triumphing 
over  disease  at  a  later  period,  when  nothing  but  a 
resolution  to  get  the  better  of  it  enabled  him  to  do 
so.  "  Be  assured,"  he  remarked  to  Mr.  Gillies, 
"  that  if  pain  could  have  prevented  my  application 
to  literary  labor,  not  a  page  of  Ivanhoe  would  have 
been  written.  Now,  if  I  had  given  way  to  mere  feel- 
ings, and  ceased  to  work,  it  is  a  question  whether 
the  disorder  might  not  have  taken  a  deeper  root, 
and  become  incurable."  But  the  most  extraor- 
dinary instance  of  this  trait  is  the  readiness  with 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  211 

which  he  assumed  and  the  spirit  with  which  he  car- 
ried through,  till  his  mental  strength  broke  down 
under  it,  the  gigantic  task  imposed  on  him  by  the 
failure  of  Constable. 

It  mattered  little  what  the  nature  of  the  task 
was,  whether  it  were  organizing  an  opposition  to 
a  political  faction,  or  a  troop  of  cavalry  to  resist 
invasion,  or  a  medley  of  wild  Highlanders  or 
Edinburgh  cockneys  to  make  up  a  royal  puppet- 
show — a  loyal  celebration — for  "  His  Most  Sacred 
Majesty,"  he  was  the  master-spirit  that  gave  the 
cue  to  the  whole  dramatis  personce.  This  potent 
impulse  showed  itself  in  the  thoroughness  with 
which  he  prescribed  not  merely  the  general  orders, 
but  the  execution  of  the  minutest  details,  in  his  own 
person.  Thus  all  around  him  was  the  creation,  as 
it  were,  of  his  individual  exertion.  His  lands 
waved  with  forests  planted  with  his  own  hands, 
and,  in  process  of  time,  cleared  by  his  own  hands. 
He  did  not  lay  the  stones  in  mortar,  exactly,  for 
his  whimsical  castle,  but  he  seems  to  have  superin- 
tended the  operation  from  the  foundation  to  the 
battlements.  The  antique  relics,  the  curious  works 
of  art,  the  hangings  and  furniture,  even,  with 
which  his  halls  were  decorated,  were  specially  con- 
trived or  selected  by  him;  and,  to  read  his  letters 
at  this  time  to  his  friend  Terry,  one  might  fancy 
himself  perusing  the  correspondence  of  an  uphol- 
sterer, so  exact  and  technical  is  he  in  his  instruc- 
tions. We  say  this  not  in  disparagement  of  his 
great  qualities.  It  is  only  the  more  extraordinary ; 
for,  while  he  stooped  to  such  trifles,  he  was  equally 
thorough  in  matters  of  the  highest  moment.  It 
was  a  trait  of  character. 


212  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

Another  quality,  which,  Hke  the  last,  seems  to 
have  given  the  tone  to  his  character,  was  his  social 
or  benevolent  feelings.  His  heart  was  an  unfail- 
ing fountain,  which  not  merely  the  distresses  but 
the  joys  of  his  fellow-creatures  made  to  flow  hke 
water.  In  early  life,  and  possibly  sometimes  in 
later,  high  spirits  and  a  vigorous  constitution  led 
him  occasionally  to  carry  his  social  propensities 
into  convivial  excess ;  but  he  never  was  in  danger 
of  the  habitual  excess  to  which  a  vulgar  mind — 
and  sometimes,  alas!  one  more  finely  tuned — 
abandons  itself.  With  all  his  conviviality,  it  was 
not  the  sensual  relish,  but  the  social,  which  acted 
on  him.  He  was  neither  gourme  nor  gourmand; 
but  his  social  meetings  were  endeared  to  him  by  the 
free  interchange  of  kindly  feelings  with  his 
friends.  La  Bruyere  says  ( and  it  is  odd  he  should 
have  found  it  out  in  Louis  the  Fourteenth's  court) , 
*'  the  heart  has  more  to  do  than  the  head  with  the 
pleasures,  or,  rather,  promoting  the  pleasures,  of 
society;"  "  Un  homme  est  d'un  meilleur  com- 
merce dans  la  societe  par  le  coeur  que  par  I'esprit." 
If  report — ^the  report  of  travellers — be  true,  we 
Americans,  at  least  the  New  Englanders,  are  too 
much  perplexed  with  the  cares  and  crosses  of  life 
to  afford  many  genuine  specimens  of  this  hon- 
hommie.  However  this  may  be,  we  all,  doubtless, 
know  some  such  character,  whose  shining  face,  the 
index  of  a  cordial  heart,  radiant  with  beneficent 
pleasure,  diffuses  its  own  exhilarating  glow 
wherever  it  appears.  Rarely,  indeed,  is  this  pre- 
cious quality  found  united  with  the  most  exalted 
intellect.    Whether  it  be  that  Nature,  chary  of  her 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  213 

gifts,  does  not  care  to  shower  too  many  of  them 
on  one  head,  or  that  the  pubhc  admiration  has  led 
the  man  of  intellect  to  set  too  high  a  value  on  him- 
self, or  at  least  his  own  pursuits,  to  take  an  inter- 
est in  the  inferior  concerns  of  others,  or  that  the 
fear  of  compromising  his  dignity  puts  him  "  on 
points  "  with  those  who  approach  him,  or  whether, 
in  truth,  the  very  magnitude  of  his  own  reputation 
throws  a  freezing  shadow  over  us  little  people  in 
his  neighborhood, — whatever  be  the  cause,  it  is  too 
true  that  the  highest  powers  of  mind  are  very  often 
deficient  in  the  only  one  which  can  make  the  rest  of 
much  worth  in  society, — the  power  of  pleasing. 

Scott  was  not  one  of  these  little  great.  His  was 
not  one  of  those  dark -lantern  visages  which  con- 
centrate all  their  light  on  their  o^vn  path  and  are 
black  as  midnight  to  all  about  them.  He  had  a 
ready  sympathy,  a  word  of  contagious  kindness  or 
cordial  greeting,  for  all.  His  manners,  too,  were 
of  a  kind  to  dispel  the  icy  reserve  and  awe  which 
his  great  name  was  calculated  to  inspire.  His 
frank  address  was  a  sort  of  open  sesame  to  every 
heart.  He  did  not  deal  in  sneers,  the  poisoned 
weapons  which  come  not  from  the  head,  as  the 
man  who  launches  them  is  apt  to  think,  but  from 
an  acid  heart,  or,  perhaps,  an  acid  stomach,  a  very 
common  laboratory  of  such  small  artillery. 
Neither  did  Scott  amuse  the  company  with  parlia- 
mentary harangues  or  metaphysical  disquisitions. 
His  conversation  was  of  the  narrative  kind,  not 
formal,  but  as  casually  suggested  by  some  passing 
circumstance  or  topic,  and  thrown  in  by  way  of 
illustration.    He  did  not  repeat  himself,  however. 


214  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

but  continued  to  give  his  anecdotes  such  variations, 
by  rigging  them  out  in  a  new  "  cocked  hat  and 
walking-cane,"  as  he  called  it,  that  they  never  tired 
like  the  thrice-told  tale  of  a  chronic  raconteur.  He 
allowed  others,  too,  to  take  their  turn,  and  thought 
with  the  Dean  of  St.  Patrick's : 

"Carve  to  all,  but  just  enough; 
Let  them  neither  starve  nor  stuff; 
And,  that  you  may  have  your  due, 
Let  your  neighbors  carve  for  you." 

He  relished  a  good  joke,  from  whatever  quarter 
it  came,  and  was  not  over-dainty  in  his  manner  of 
testifying  his  satisfaction.  "  In  the  full  tide  of 
mirth,  he  did  indeed  laugh  the  heart's  laugh,"  says 
Mr.  Adolphus.  "  Give  me  an  honest  laugher," 
said  Scott  himself,  on  another  occasion,  when  a 
buckram  man  of  fashion  had  been  paying  him  a 
visit  at  Abbotsford.  His  manners,  free  from 
affectation  or  artifice  of  any  sort,  exhibited  the 
spontaneous  movements  of  a  kind  disposition,  sub- 
ject to  those  rules  of  good  breeding  which  Nature 
herself  might  have  dictated.  In  this  way  he  an- 
swered his  own  purpose  admirably  as  a  painter  of 
character,  by  putting  every  man  in  good  humor 
with  himself,  in  the  same  manner  as  a  cunning 
portrait-painter  amuses  his  sitters  with  such  store 
of  fun  and  anecdote  as  may  throw  them  off  their 
guard  and  call  out  the  happiest  expressions  of  their 
countenances. 

Scott,  in  his  wide  range  of  friends  and  compan- 
ions, does  not  seem  to  have  been  over-fastidious. 
In  the  instance  of  John  Ballantyne,  it  has  exposed 
him  to  some  censure.    In  truth,  a  more  worthless 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  215 

fellow  never  hung  on  the  skirts  of  a  great  man; 
for  he  did  not  take  the  trouble  to  throw  a  decent 
veil  over  the  grossest  excesses.  But  then  he  had 
been  the  school-boy  friend  of  Scott;  had  grown 
up  with  him  in  a  sort  of  dependence, — a  relation 
which  begets  a  kindly  feeling  in  the  party  that 
confers  the  benefits,  at  least.  How  strong  it  was 
in  him  may  be  inferred  from  his  remark  at  his 
funeral.  "  I  feel,"  said  Scott,  mournfully,  as  the 
solemnity  was  concluded,  *'  I  feel  as  if  there  would 
be  less  sunshine  for  me  from  this  day  forth."  It 
must  be  admitted,  however,  that  his  intimacy  with 
httle  Rigdumfunnidos,  whatever  apology  it  may 
find  in  Scott's  heart,  was  not  very  creditable  to  his 
taste. 

But  the  benevolent  principle  showed  itself  not 
merely  in  words,  but  in  the  more  substantial  form 
of  actions.  How  many  are  the  cases  recorded  of 
indigent  merit  which  he  drew  from  obscurity  and 
almost  warmed  into  life  by  his  own  generous  and 
most  delicate  patronage!  Such  were  the  cases, 
among  others,  of  Leyden,  Weber,  Hogg.  How 
often  and  how  cheerfully  did  he  supply  such  lit- 
erary contributions  as  were  solicited  by  his  friends 
— and  they  taxed  him  pretty  liberally — amid  all 
the  pressure  of  business,  and  at  the  height  of  his 
fame,  when  his  hours  were  golden  hours  to  him! 
In  the  more  vulgar  and  easier  forms  of  charity  he 
did  not  stint  his  hand,  though,  instead  of  direct  as- 
sistance, he  preferred  to  enable  others  to  assist 
themselves, — in  this  way  fortifying  their  good 
habits  and  relieving  them  from  the  sense  of  per- 
sonal degradation. 


216  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

But  the  place  where  his  benevolent  impulses 
found  their  proper  theatre  for  expansion  was  his 
own  home,  surrounded  by  a  happy  family,  and 
dispensing  all  the  hospitalities  of  a  great  feudal 
proprietor.  "  There  are  many  good  things  in  life," 
he  says,  in  one  of  his  letters,  "  whatever  satirists 
and  misanthropes  may  say  to  the  contrary;  but 
probably  the  best  of  all,  next  to  a  conscience  void 
of  oiFence  (without  which,  by-the-by,  they  can 
hardly  exist),  are  the  quiet  exercise  and  enjoy- 
ment of  the  social  feelings,  in  which  we  are  at 
once  happy  ourselves  and  the  cause  of  happiness 
to  them  who  are  dearest  to  us."  Every  page  of  the 
work,  almost,  shows  us  how  intimately  he  blended 
himself  with  the  pleasures  and  the  pursuits  of  his 
own  family,  watched  over  the  education  of  his  chil- 
dren, shared  in  their  rides,  their  rambles  and  sports, 
losing  no  opportunity  of  kindling  in  their  young 
minds  a  love  of  virtue,  and  honorable  principles 
of  action.  He  delighted,  too,  to  collect  his  ten- 
antry around  him,  multiplying  holidays,  when 
young  and  old  might  come  together  under  his  roof- 
tree,  when  the  jolly  punch  was  liberally  dispensed 
by  himself  and  his  wife  among  the  elder  people, 
and  the  Hogmanay  cakes  and  pennies  were  dis- 
tributed among  the  young  ones,  while  his  own  chil- 
dren mingled  in  the  endless  reels  and  hornpipes  on 
the  earthen  floor,  and  the  laird  himself,  mixing  in 
the  groups  of  merry  faces,  had  "  his  private  joke 
for  every  old  wife  or  '  gausie  carle,'  his  arch  com- 
pliment for  the  ear  of  every  bonny  lass,  and  his 
hand  and  his  blessing  for  the  head  of  every  little 
Eppie  Daidle  from  Abbotstown  or  Broomylees." 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  217 

"  Sir  Walter,"  said  one  of  his  old  retainers, 
"  speaks  to  every  man  as  if  he  were  his  blood  rela- 
tion." No  wonder  that  they  should  have  returned 
this  feeling  with  something  warmer  than  blood  re- 
lations usually  do.  Mr.  Gilhes  tells  an  anecdote  of 
the  Ettrick  Shepherd,  showing  how  deep  a  root 
such  feehngs,  notwithstanding  his  rather  odd  way 
of  expressing  them  sometimes,  had  taken  in  his 
honest  nature.  "  Mr.  James  Ballantyne,  walking 
home  with  him  one  evening  from  Scott's,  where, 
by-the-by,  Hogg  had  gone  uninvited,  happened  to 
observe,  *  I  do  not  at  all  like  this  illness  of  Scott's. 
I  have  often  seen  him  look  jaded  of  late,  and  am 
afraid  it  is  serious.'  '  Hand  your  tongue,  or  I'll 
gar  you  measure  your  length  on  the  pavement ! ' 
replied  Hogg.  '  You  fause,  down-hearted  loon 
that  you  are;  ye  daur  to  speak  as  if  Scott  were 
on  his  death-bed!  It  cannot  be — it  must  not  be  I 
I  will  not  suffer  you  to  speak  that  gait.'  The  sen- 
timent was  like  that  of  Uncle  Toby  at  the  bedside 
of  Le  Fevre ;  and,  at  these  words,  the  Shepherd's 
voice  became  suppressed  with  emotion." 

But  Scott's  sympathies  were  not  confined  to  his 
species ;  and  if  he  treated  them  like  blood  relations, 
he  treated  his  brute  followers  like  personal  friends. 
Every  one  remembers  old  Maida  and  faithful 
Camp,  the  "  dear  old  friend,"  whose  loss  cost  him 
a  dinner.  Mr.  Gillies  tells  us  that  he  went  into  his 
study  on  one  occasion,  when  he  was  winding  off  his 
"  Vision  of  Don  Roderick."  "  '  Look  here,'  said 
the  poet,  '  I  have  just  begun  to  copy  over  the 
rhymes  that  you  heard  to-day  and  applauded  so 
much.    Return  to  supper,  if  you  can;   only  don't 


218  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

be  late,  as  you  perceive  we  keep  early  hours,  and 
Wallace  will  not  suif er  me  to  rest  after  six  in  the 
morning.  Come,  good  dog,  and  help  the  poet.' 
At  this  hint,  Wallace  seated  himself  upright  on  a 
chair  next  his  master,  who  offered  him  a  news- 
paper, which  he  directly  seized,  looking  very  wise, 
and  holding  it  firmly  and  contentedly  in  his  mouth. 
Scott  looked  at  him  with  great  satisfaction,  for  he 
was  excessively  fond  of  dogs.  '  Very  well,'  said 
he ;  '  now  we  shall  get  on.'  And  so  I  left  them 
abruptly,  knowing  that  my  '  absence  would  be  the 
best  company.'  "  This  fellowship  extended  much 
farther  than  to  his  canine  followers,  of  which,  in- 
cluding hounds,  terriers,  mastiffs,  and  mongrels, 
he  had  certainly  a  goodly  assortment.  We  find, 
also.  Grimalkin  installed  in  a  responsible  post  in 
the  Hbrary,  and,  out  of  doors,  pet  hens,  pet  don- 
keys, and — ^tell  it  not  in  Judaea — a  pet  pig! 

Scott's  sensibilities,  though  easily  moved  and 
widely  diffused,  were  warm  and  sincere.  None 
shared  more  cordially  in  the  troubles  of  his  friends ; 
but  on  all  such  occasions,  with  a  true  manly  feel- 
ing, he  thought  less  of  mere  sympathy  than  of  the 
most  effectual  way  for  mitigating  their  sorrows. 
After  a  touching  allusion  in  one  of  his  epistles  to 
his  dear  friend  Erskine's  death,  he  concludes,  "  I 
must  turn  to  and  see  what  can  be  done  about  get- 
ting some  pension  for  his  daughters."  In  another 
passage,  which  may  remind  one  of  some  of  the  ex- 
quisite touches  in  Jeremy  Taylor,  he  indulges  in 
the  following  beautiful  strain  of  philosophy: 
"  The  last  three  or  four  years  have  swept  away 
more  than  half  the  friends  with  whom  I  Hved  in 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  £19 

habits  of  great  intimacy.     So  it  must  be  with  us 

'  When  ance  life's  day  draws  near  the  gloamin', ' 

and  yet  we  proceed  with  our  plantations  and  plans 
as  if  any  tree  but  the  sad  cypress  would  accom- 
pany us  to  the  grave,  where  our  friends  have  gone 
before  us.  It  is  the  way  of  the  world,  however, 
and  must  be  so;  otherwise  life  would  be  spent  in 
unavailing  mourning  for  those  whom  we  have  lost. 
It  is  better  to  enjoy  the  society  of  those  who  re- 
main to  us."  His  well-disciplined  heart  seems  to 
have  confessed  the  influence  of  this  philosophy  in 
his  most  ordinary  relations.  "  I  can't  help  it,"  was 
a  favorite  maxim  of  his,  "  and  therefore  will  not 
think  about  it;  for  that,  at  least,  I  can  help." 

Among  his  admirable  qualities  must  not  be  omit- 
ted a  certain  worldly  sagacity  or  shrewdness,  which 
is  expressed  as  strongly  as  any  individual  trait 
can  be  in  some  of  his  portraits,  especially  in  the 
excellent  one  of  him  by  LesHe.  Indeed,  his  coun- 
tenance would  seem  to  exhibit,  ordinarily,  much 
more  of  Dandie  Dinmont's  benevolent  shrewdness 
than  of  the  eye  glancing  from  earth  to  heaven 
which  in  fancy  we  assign  to  the  poet,  and  which, 
in  some  moods,  must  have  been  his.  This  trait  may 
be  readily  discerned  in  his  business  transactions, 
which  he  managed  with  perfect  knowledge  of  char- 
acter as  well  as  of  his  own  rights.  No  one  knew 
better  than  he  the  market  value  of  an  article ;  and, 
though  he  underrated  his  literary  wares  as  to  their 
mere  hterary  rank,  he  set  as  high  a  money  value 
on  them  and  made  as  sharp  a  bargain  as  any  of  the 
trade  could  have  done.    In  his  business  concerns, 


220  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

indeed,  he  managed  rather  too  much,  or,  to  speak 
more  correctly,  was  too  fond  of  mixing  up  mys- 
tery in  his  transactions,  which,  hke  most  mysteries, 
proved  of  Httle  service  to  their  author.  Scott's 
correspondence,  especially  with  his  son,  aiFords  ob- 
vious examples  of  shrewdness,  in  the  advice  he 
gives  as  to  his  deportment  in  the  novel  situations 
and  society  into  which  the  young  cornet  was 
thrown.  Occasionally,  in  the  cautious  hints  about 
etiquette  and  social  observances,  we  may  be  re- 
minded of  that  ancient  "  arbiter  elegantiarum," 
Lord  Chesterfield,  though  it  must  be  confessed 
there  is  throughout  a  high  moral  tone,  which  the 
noble  lord  did  not  very  scrupulously  aiFect. 

Another  feature  in  Scott's  character  was  liis  loy- 
alty, which  some  people  would  extend  into  a  more 
general  deference  to  rank  not  royal.  We  do  cer- 
tainly meet  with  a  tone  of  deference,  occasionally, 
to  the  privileged  orders  (or,  rather,  privileged  per- 
sons, as  the  king,  or  his  own  chief,  for  to  the  mass 
of  stars  and  garters  he  showed  no  such  respect) 
which  falls  rather  unpleasantly  on  the  ear  of  a 
republican.  But,  independently  of  the  feelings 
which  rightfully  belonged  to  him  as  the  subject  of 
a  monarchy,  and  without  which  he  must  have  been 
a  false-hearted  subject,  his  o^vn  were  heightened 
by  a  poetical  coloring  that  mingled  in  his  mind 
even  with  much  more  vulgar  relations  of  life.  At 
the  opening  of  the  regalia  in  Hoiyrood  House, 
when  the  honest  burgomaster  deposited  the  crown 
on  the  head  of  one  of  the  young  ladies  present,  the 
good  man  probably  saw  nothing  more  in  the  dingy 
diadem  than  we  should  have  seen, — a  headpiece  for 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  221 

a  set  of  men  no  better  than  himself,  and,  if  the  old 
adage  of  a  "  dead  lion  "  holds  true,  not  quite  so 
good.  But  to  Scott's  imagination  other  views  were 
unfolded.  "  A  thousand  years  their  cloudy  wings 
expanded  "  around  him,  and  in  the  dim  visions  of 
distant  times  he  beheld  the  venerable  hne  of  mon- 
archs  who  had  swayed  the  councils  of  his  country 
in  peace  and  led  her  armies  in  battle.  The  "  golden 
round  "  became  in  his  eye  the  symbol  of  his  nation's 
glory;  and,  as  he  heaved  a  heavy  oath  from  his 
heart,  he  left  the  room  in  agitation,  from  which  he 
did  not  speedily  recover.  There  was  not  a  spice 
of  affectation  in  this, — for  who  ever  accused  Scott 
of  affectation? — but  there  was  a  good  deal  of 
poetry,  the  poetry  of  sentiment. 

We  have  said  that  this  feeling  mingled  in  the 
more  common  concerns  of  his  life.  His  cranium, 
indeed,  to  judge  from  his  busts,  must  have  exhib- 
ited a  strong  development  of  the  organ  of  venera- 
tion. He  regarded  with  reverence  every  thing 
connected  with  antiquity.  His  establishment  was 
on  the  feudal  scale ;  his  house  was  fashioned  more 
after  the  feudal  ages  than  his  own;  and  even  in 
the  ultimate  distribution  of  his  fortune,  although 
the  circumstance  of  having  made  it  himself  relieved 
him  from  any  legal  necessity  of  contravening  the 
suggestions  of  natural  justice,  he  showed  such  at- 
tachment to  the  old  aristocratic  usage  as  to  settle 
nearly  the  whole  of  it  on  his  eldest  son. 

The  influence  of  this  poetic  sentiment  is  discern- 
ible in  his  most  trifling  acts,  in  his  tastes,  his  love 
of  the  arts,  his  social  habits.  His  museum,  house, 
and  grounds  were  adorned  with  relics  curious  not 


222  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

so  much  from  their  workmanship  as  their  historic 
associations.  It  was  the  ancient  fountain  from 
Edinburgh,  the  Tolbooth  hntels,  the  blunderbuss 
and  spleughan  of  Rob  Roy,  the  drinking-cup  of 
Prince  Charhe,  or  the  Hke.  It  was  the  same  in  the 
arts.  The  tunes  he  loved  were  not  the  refined  and 
complex  melodies  of  Italy,  but  the  simple  notes  of 
his  native  minstrelsy,  from  the  bagpipe  of  John  of 
Skye,  or  from  the  harp  of  his  own  lovely  and  ac- 
complished daughter.  So,  also,  in  painting.  It 
was  not  the  masterly  designs  of  the  great  Flemish 
and  Italian  schools  that  adorned  his  walls,  but 
some  portrait  of  Claverhouse,  or  of  Queen  Mary, 
or  of  "  glorious  old  John."  In  architecture  we 
see  the  same  spirit  in  the  singular  "  romance  of 
stone  and  lime,"  which  may  be  said  to  have  been 
his  own  device,  down  to  the  minutest  details  of  its 
finishing.  We  see  it  again  in  the  joyous  celebra- 
tions of  his  feudal  tenantry,  the  good  old  festivals, 
the  Hogmanay,  the  Kirn,  etc.,  long  fallen  into 
desuetude,  when  the  old  Highland  piper  sounded 
the  same  wild  pibroch  that  had  so  often  summoned 
the  clans  together,  for  war  or  for  wassail,  among 
the  fastnesses  of  the  mountains.  To  the  same 
source,  in  fine,  may  be  traced  the  feelings  of  super- 
stition which  seemed  to  hover  round  Scott's  mind 
like  some  "  strange,  mysterious  dream,"  giving  a 
romantic  coloring  to  his  conversation  and  his  writ- 
ings, but  rarely,  if  ever,  influencing  his  actions.  It 
was  a  poetic  sentiment. 

Scott  was  a  Tory  to  the  backbone.  Had  he  come 
into  the  world  half  a  century  sooner,  he  would,  no 
doubt,  have  made  a  figure  under  the  banner  of  the 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  223 

Pretender.  He  was  at  no  great  pains  to  disguise 
his  political  creed;  witness  his  jolly  drinking- 
song  on  the  acquittal  of  Lord  Melville.  This  was 
verse;  but  his  prose  is  not  much  more  quahfied. 
"  As  for  Whiggery  in  general,"  he  says,  in  one  of 
his  letters,  "  I  can  only  say  that,  as  no  man  can  be 
said  to  be  utterly  overset  until  his  rump  has  been 
higher  than  his  head,  so  I  cannot  read  in  history 
of  any  free  state  which  has  been  brought  to  slavery 
until  the  rascal  and  uninstructed  populace  had  had 
their  short  hour  of  anarchical  government,  which 
naturally  leads  to  the  stern  repose  of  military  des- 
potism  With  these  convictions,  I  am  very 

jealous  of  Whiggery  under  all  modifications,  and 
I  must  say  my  acquaintance  with  the  total  want  of 
principle  in  some  of  its  warmest  professors  does 
not  tend  to  recommend  it."  With  all  this,  how- 
ever, his  Toryism  was  not,  practically,  of  that  sort 
which  blunts  a  man's  sensibilities  for  those  who  are 
not  of  the  same  porcelain  clay  with  himself.  No 
man,  Whig  or  Radical,  ever  had  less  of  this  pre- 
tension, or  treated  his  inferiors  with  greater  kind- 
ness, and  even  f  amiharity, — a  circumstance  noticed 
by  every  visitor  at  his  hospitable  mansion  who  saw 
him  strolling  round  his  grounds,  taking  his  pinch 
of  snuff  out  of  the  mull  of  some  "  gray-haired  old 
hedger,"  or  leaning  on  honest  Tom  Purdie's  shoul- 
der and  taking  sweet  counsel  as  to  the  right  method 
of  thinning  a  plantation.  But,  with  all  this  famil- 
iarity, no  man  was  better  served  by  his  domestics. 
It  was  the  service  of  love,  the  only  service  that 
power  cannot  command  and  money  cannot  buy. 
Akin  to  the  feelings  of  which  we  have  been 


224  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

speaking  was  the  truly  chivalrous  sense  of  honor 
which  stamped  his  whole  conduct.  We  do  not 
mean  that  Hotspur  honor  which  is  roused  only  by 
the  drum  and  fife, — though  he  says  of  himself, 
"  I  like  the  sound  of  a  drum  as  well  as  Uncle  Toby 
ever  did," — but  that  honor  which  is  deep-seated  in 
the  heart  of  every  true  gentleman,  shrinking  with 
sensitive  delicacy  from  the  least  stain,  or  imputa- 
tion of  a  stain,  on  his  faith.  "  If  we  lose  every 
thing  else,"  writes  he,  on  a  trying  occasion,  to  a 
friend  who  was  not  so  nice  in  this  particular,  "  we 
will  at  least  keep  our  honor  unblemished."  It  re- 
minds one  of  the  pithy  epistle  of  a  kindred  chival- 
rous spirit,  Francis  the  First,  to  his  mother,  from 
the  unlucky  field  of  Pavia:  "  Tout  est  perdu,  fors 
I'honneur."  Scott's  latter  years  furnished  a  noble 
commentary  on  the  sincerity  of  his  manly  princi- 
ples. 

Little  is  said  directly  of  his  religious  sentiments 
in  the  biography.  They  seem  to  have  harmonized 
well  with  his  political.  He  was  a  member  of  the 
English  Church,  a  stanch  champion  of  established 
forms,  and  a  sturdy  enemy  to  every  thing  that  sa- 
vored of  the  sharp  tang  of  Puritanism.  On  this 
ground,  indeed,  the  youthful  Samson  used  to  wres- 
tle manfully  with  worthy  Dominie  LlitcheU,  who, 
no  doubt,  furnished  many  a  screed  of  doctrine  for 
the  Rev.  Peter  Poundtext,  Master  Nehemiah 
Holdenough,  and  other  lights  of  the  Covenant. 
Scott  was  no  friend  to  cant  under  any  form.  But, 
whatever  were  his  speculative  opinions,  in  practice 
his  heart  overflowed  with  that  charity  which  is  the 
life-spring  of  our  religion ;  and  whenever  he  takes 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  225 

occasion  to  allude  to  the  subject  directly  he  testi- 
fies a  deep  reverence  for  the  truths  of  revelation, 
as  well  as  for  its  Divine  original. 

Whatever  estimate  be  formed  of  Scott's  moral 
qualities,  his  intellectual  were  of  a  kind  which  w^ll 
entitled  him  to  the  epithet  conferred  on  Lope  de 
Vega,  "  monstruo  de  naturaleza"  (a  miracle  of 
nature).  His  mind  scarcely  seemed  to  be  sub- 
jected to  the  same  laws  that  control  the  rest  of  his 
species.  His  memory,  as  is  usual,  was  the  first 
of  his  powers  fully  developed.  While  an  urchin 
at  school,  he  could  repeat  whole  cantos,  he  says,  of 
Ossian  and  of  Spenser.  In  riper  years  we  are  con- 
stantly meeting  with  similar  feats  of  his  achieve- 
ment. Thus,  on  one  occasion,  he  repeated  the 
whole  of  a  poem  in  some  penny  magazine,  inci- 
dentally alluded  to,  which  he  had  not  seen  since  he 
was  a  school-boy.  On  another,  when  the  Ettrick 
Shepherd  was  trying  ineffectually  to  fish  up  from 
his  own  recollections  some  scraps  of  a  ballad  he  had 
himself  manufactured  years  before,  Scott  called  to 
him,  "  Take  your  pencil,  Jemmy,  and  I  wiU  tell 
it  to  you,  word  for  word;"  and  he  accordingly  did 
so.  But  it  is  needless  to  multiply  examples  of 
feats  so  startling  as  to  look  almost  like  the  tricks 
of  a  conjurer. 

What  is  most  extraordinary  is,  that  while  he  ac- 
quired with  such  facility  that  the  bare  perusal,  or 
the  repetition  of  a  thing  once  to  him,  was  sufficient, 
he  yet  retained  it  with  the  greatest  pertinacity. 
Other  men's  memories  are  so  much  jostled  in  the 
rough  and  tumble  of  life  that  most  of  the  facts  get 
sifted  out  nearly  as  fast  as  they  are  put  in ;  so  that 

Vol.  I.— 15 


226  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

we  are  in  the  same  dilemma  with  those  unlucky 
daughters  of  Danaus,  of  school-boy  memory, 
obliged  to  spend  the  greater  part  of  the  time  in  re- 
plenishing. But  Scott's  memory  seemed  to  be  her- 
metically sealed,  suffering  nothing  once  fairly  in 
to  leak  out  again.  This  was  of  immense  service  to 
him  when  he  took  up  the  business  of  authorship,  as 
his  whole  multifarious  stock  of  facts,  whether 
from  books  or  observation,  became,  in  truth,  his 
stock  in  trade,  ready  furnished  to  his  hands.  This 
may  explain  in  part — though  it  is  not  less  marvel- 
lous— the  cause  of  his  rapid  execution  of  works 
often  replete  with  rare  and  curious  information. 
The  labor,  the  preparation,  had  been  already  com- 
pleted. His  whole  life  had  been  a  business  of  prep- 
aration. When  he  ventured,  as  in  the  case  of 
"  Rokeby "  and  of  "  Quentin  Durward,"  on 
ground  with  which  he  had  not  been  familiar,  we  see 
how  industriously  he  set  about  new  acquisitions. 

In  most  of  the  prodigies  of  memory  which  we 
have  ever  known,  the  overgrowth  of  that  faculty 
seems  to  have  been  attained  at  the  expense  of  all 
the  others ;  but  in  Scott  the  directly  opposite  power 
of  the  imagination,  the  inventive  power,  was 
equally  strongly  developed,  and  at  the  same  early 
age;  for  we  find  him  renowned  for  story-craft 
while  at  school.  How  many  a  delightful  fiction, 
warm  with  the  flush  of  ingenuous  youth,  did  he  not 
throw  away  on  the  ears  of  thoughtless  childhood, 
which,  had  they  been  duly  registered,  might  now 
have  amused  children  of  a  larger  growth?  We 
have  seen  Scott's  genius  in  its  prime  and  its  decay. 
The  frolic  graces  of  childhood  are  alone  wanting. 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  227 

The  facility  with  which  he  threw  his  ideas  into 
language  was  also  remarked  very  early.  One  of 
his  first  ballads,  and  a  long  one,  was  dashed  off  at 
the  dinner-table.  His  "  Lay  "  was  written  at  the 
rate  of  a  canto  a  week.  "  Waverley,"  or,  rather, 
the  last  two  volumes  of  it,  cost  the  evenings  of  a 
summer  month.  Who  that  has  ever  read  the  ac- 
count can  forget  the  movements  of  that  mysterious 
hand,  as  described  by  the  two  students  from  the 
window  of  a  neighboring  attic,  throwing  off  sheet 
after  sheet,  with  untiring  rapidity,  of  the  pages 
destined  to  immortality?  Scott  speaks  pleasantly 
enough  of  this  marvellous  facility  in  a  letter  to  his 
friend  Morritt:  "When  once  I  set  my  pen  to 
the  paper,  it  will  walk  fast  enough.  I  am  some- 
times tempted  to  leave  it  alone,  and  see  whether 
it  will  not  write  as  well  without  the  assistance  of 
my  head  as  with  it.  A  hopeful  prospect  for  the 
reader." 

As  to  the  time  and  place  of  composition,  he  ap- 
pears to  have  been  nearly  indifferent.  He  pos- 
sessed entire  power  of  abstraction,  and  it  mattered 
little  whether  he  were  nailed  to  his  clerk's  desk, 
under  the  drowsy  eloquence  of  some  long-winded 
barrister,  or  dashing  his  horse  into  the  surf  on  Por- 
tobello  sands,  or  rattling  in  a  post-chaise,  or  amid 
the  hum  of  guests  in  his  overflowing  halls  at 
Abbotsford, — it  mattered  not;  the  same  well-ad- 
justed little  packet,  "  nicely  corded  and  sealed," 
was  sure  to  be  ready,  at  the  regular  time,  for  the 
Edinburgh  mail.  His  own  account  of  his  compo- 
sition to  a  friend,  who  asked  when  he  found  time 
for  it,  is  striking  enough.  "  Oh,"  said  Scott,  "  I 


228  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

lie  simmering  over  things  for  an  hour  or  so  before 
I  get  up,  and  there's  the  time  I  am  dressing  to 
overhaul  my  half -sleeping,  half -waking  pro  jet  de 
chapitre;  and  when  I  get  the  paper  before  me,  it 
commonly  runs  off  pretty  easily.  Besides,  I  often 
take  a  doze  in  the  plantations,  and  while  Tom 
marks  out  a  dike  or  a  drain  as  I  have  directed,  one's 
fancy  may  be  running  its  ain  riggs  in  some  other 
world."  Never  did  this  sort  of  simmering  pro- 
duce such  a  splendid  bill  of  fare. 

The  quality  of  the  material,  under  such  circum- 
stances, is,  in  truth,  the  great  miracle  of  the  whole. 
The  execution  of  so  much  work,  as  a  mere  feat  of 
penmanship,  would  undoubtedly  be  very  extraor- 
dinary, but,  as  a  mere  scrivener's  miracle,  would 
be  hardly  worth  recording.  It  is  a  sort  of  miracle 
that  is  every  day  performing  under  our  own  eyes, 
as  it  were,  by  Messrs.  James,  Bulwer,  &  Co.,  who, 
in  all  the  various  staples  of  "  comedy,  history, 
pastoral-comical,  historical-pastoral,"  etc.,  supply 
their  own  market,  and  ours  too,  with  all  that  can 
be  wanted.  In  Spain,  and  in  Italy  also,  we  may 
find  abundance  of  improvvisatori  and  improvvis- 
atrici,  who  perform  miracles  of  the  same  sort,  in 
verse  too,  in  languages  whose  vowel  terminations 
make  it  very  easy  for  the  thoughts  to  tumble  into 
rhyme  without  any  malice  prepense.  Sir  Stam- 
ford Raffles,  in  his  account  of  Java,  tells  us  of  a 
splendid  avenue  of  trees  before  his  house,  which 
in  the  course  of  a  year  shot  up  to  the  height  of 
forty  feet.  But  who  shall  compare  the  brief,  tran- 
sitory splendors  of  a  fungous  vegetation  with  the 
mighty  monarch  of  the  forest,  sending  his  roots 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES 

deep  into  the  heart  of  the  earth,  and  his  branches, 
amid  storm  and  sunshine,  to  the  heavens?  And  is 
not  the  latter  the  true  emblem  of  Scott  ?  For  who 
can  doubt  that  his  prose  creations,  at  least,  will 
gather  strength  with  time,  living  on  through  suc- 
ceeding generations,  even  when  the  language  in 
which  they  are  written,  Hke  those  of  Greece  and 
Rome,  shall  cease  to  be  a  living  language? 

The  only  writer  deserving,  in  these  respects,  to 
be  named  with  Scott,  is  Lope  de  Vega,  who  in  his 
own  day  held  as  high  a  rank  in  the  republic  of  let- 
ters as  our  great  contemporary.  The  beautiful 
dramas  which  he  threw  off  for  the  entertainment 
of  the  capital,  and  whose  success  drove  Cervantes 
from  the  stage,  outstripped  the  abilities  of  an 
amanuensis  to  copy.  His  intimate  friend  Montal- 
van,  one  of  the  most  popular  and  prolific  authors 
of  the  time,  tells  us  that  he  undertook  with  Lope 
once  to  supply  the  theatre  with  a  comedy — in 
verse,  and  in  three  acts,  as  the  Spanish  dramas  usu- 
ally were — at  a  very  short  notice.  In  order  to  get 
through  his  half  as  soon  as  his  partner,  he  rose  by 
two  in  the  morning,  and  at  eleven  had  completed 
it;  an  extraordinary  feat,  certainly,  since  a  play 
extended  to  between  thirty  and  forty  pages,  of  a 
hundred  lines  each.  Walking  into  the  garden,  he 
found  his  brother  poet  pruning  an  orange-tree. 
"  Well,  how  do  you  get  on? "  said  Montalvan. 
"  Very  well,"  answered  Lope.  "  I  rose  betimes, — 
at  five, — and,  after  I  had  got  through,  eat  my 
breakfast;  since  v/hich  I  have  written  a  letter  of 
fifty  triplets,  and  watered  the  whole  of  the  garden, 
which  has  tired  me  a  good  deal." 


230  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

But  a  little  arithmetic  will  best  show  the  com- 
parative fertility  of  Scott  and  Lope  de  Vega.  It  is 
so  germane  to  the  present  matter  that  we  shall 
make  no  apology  for  transcribing  here  some  com- 
putations from  our  last  July  number ;  and  as  few 
of  our  readers,  we  suspect,  have  the  air-tight  mem- 
ory of  Sir  Walter,  we  doubt  not  that  enough  of  it 
has  escaped  them  by  this  time  to  excuse  us  from 
equipping  it  with  one  of  those  "  cocked  hats  and 
walking-sticks  "  with  which  he  furbished  up  an  old 
story. 

"  It  is  impossible  to  state  the  results  of  Lope  de 
Vega's  labors  in  any  form  that  will  not  powerfully 
strike  the  imagination.  Thus,  he  has  left  twenty- 
one  million  three  hundred  thousand  verses  in  print, 
besides  a  mass  of  manuscript.  He  furnished  the 
theatre,  according  to  the  statement  of  his  intimate 
friend  Montalvan,  with  eighteen  hundred  regular 
plays  and  four  hundred  autos,  or  religious  dramas, 
— all  acted.  He  composed,  according  to  his  own 
statement,  more  than  one  hundred  comedies  in  the 
almost  incredible  space  of  twenty-four  hours  each ; 
and  a  comedy  averaged  between  two  and  three 
thousand  verses,  great  part  of  them  rhymed, 
and  interspersed  with  sonnets  and  other  more  diffi- 
cult forms  of  versification.  He  lived  seventy-two 
years ;  and,  supposing  him  to  have  employed  fifty 
of  that  period  in  composition,  although  he  filled  a 
variety  of  engrossing  vocations  during  that  time, 
he  must  have  averaged  a  play  a  week,  to  say  noth- 
ing of  twenty-one  volumes,  quarto,  of  miscel- 
laneous works,  including  five  epics,  T^Titten  in  his 
leisure  moments,  and  all  now  in  print ! 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  231 

"  The  only  achievements  we  can  recall  in  literary 
history  bearing  any  resemblance  to,  though  falling 
far  short  of  this,  are  those  of  our  illustrious  con- 
temporary Sir  Walter  Scott.  The  complete  edi- 
tion of  his  works,  recently  advertised  by  Murray, 
with  the  addition  of  two  volumes  of  which  Murray 
has  not  the  copyright,  probably  contains  ninety 
volumes,  small  octavo.  [To  these  should  farther 
be  added  a  large  supply  of  matter  for  the  Edin- 
burgh Annual  Register,  as  well  as  other  anony- 
mous contributions.]  Of  these,  forty-eight  vol- 
umes of  novels,  and  twenty-one  of  history  and 
biography,  were  produced  between  1814  and  1831, 
or  in  seventeen  years.  These  would  give  an  aver- 
age of  four  volumes  a  year,  or  one  for  every  three 
months  during  the  whole  of  that  period ;  to  which 
must  be  added  twenty-one  volumes  of  poetry  and 
prose,  previously  published.  The  mere  mechani- 
cal execution  of  so  much  work,  both  in  his  case  and 
Lope  de  Vega's,  would  seem  to  be  scarce  possible 
in  the  hmits  assigned.  Scott,  too,  was  as  variously 
occupied  in  other  ways  as  his  Spanish  rival,  and 
probably,  from  the  social  hospitality  of  his  life, 
spent  a  much  larger  portion  of  his  time  in  no  lit- 
erary occupation  at  all." 

Of  all  the  wonderful  dramatic  creations  of  Lope 
de  Vega's  genius,  what  now  remains?  Two  or 
three  plays  only  keep  possession  of  the  stage,  and 
few,  very  few,  are  still  read  with  pleasure  in  the 
closet.  They  have  never  been  collected  into  a  uni- 
form edition,  and  are  now  met  vidth  in  scattered 
sheets  only  on  the  shelves  of  some  mousing  book- 
seller, or  collected  in  miscellaneous  parcels  in  the 
libraries  of  the  curious. 


232  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

Scott,  with  all  his  facility  of  execution,  had  none 
of  that  pitiable  affectation  sometimes  found  in 
men  of  genius,  who  think  that  the  possession  of 
this  quality  may  dispense  with  regular,  methodical 
habits  of  study.  He  was  most  economical  of  time. 
He  did  not,  Hke  Voltaire,  speak  of  it  as  "  a  terrible 
thing  that  so  much  time  should  be  wasted  in  talk- 
ing." He  was  too  little  of  a  pedant,  and  far  too 
benevolent,  not  to  feel  that  there  are  other  objects 
worth  living  for  than  mere  literary  fame;  but  he 
grudged  the  waste  of  time  on  merely  frivolous  and 
heartless  objects.  "  As  for  dressing  when  we  are 
quite  alone,"  he  remarked  one  day  to  Mr.  Gillies, 
whom  he  had  taken  home  with  him  to  a  family  din- 
ner, "  it  is  out  of  the  question.  Life  is  not  long 
enough  for  such  fiddle-faddle."  In  the  early  part 
of  his  life  he  worked  late  at  night,  but  subse- 
quently, from  a  conviction  of  the  superior  health- 
iness of  early  rising,  as  well  as  the  desire  to  secure, 
at  all  hazards,  a  portion  of  the  day  for  literary 
labor,  he  rose  at  five  the  year  round;  no  small 
effort,  as  any  one  will  admit  who  has  seen  the  pain 
and  difficulty  which  a  regular  bird  of  night  finds 
in  reconciling  his  eyes  to  daylight.  He  was  scru- 
pulously exact,  moreover,  in  the  distribution  of  his 
hours.  In  one  of  his  letters  to  his  friend  Terry, 
the  player,  replete,  as  usual,  with  advice  that 
seems  to  flow  equally  from  the  head  and  the 
heart,  he  says,  in  reference  to  the  practice  of 
dawdling  away  one's  time,  "  A  habit  of  the  mind 
it  is  which  is  very  apt  to  beset  men  of  intellect 
and  talent,  especially  when  their  time  is  not  regu- 
larly filled  up,  but  left  to  their  own  arrange- 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  233 

merit.  But  it  is  like  the  ivy  round  the  oak, 
and  ends  by  limiting,  if  it  does  not  destroy,  the 
power  of  manly  and  necessary  exertion.  I  must 
love  a  man  so  well,  to  whom  I  offer  such  a  word  of 
advice,  that  I  will  not  apologize  for  it,  but  expect 
to  hear  you  are  become  as  regular  as  a  Dutch  clocks 
— hours,  quarters,  minutes,  all  marked  and  appro- 
priated." With  the  same  emphasis  he  inculcates 
the  like  habits  on  his  son.  If  any  man  might  dis- 
pense with  them,  it  was  surely  Scott.  But  he  knew 
that  without  them  the  greatest  powers  of  mind  will 
run  to  waste,  and  water  but  the  desert. 

Some  of  the  literary  opinions  of  Scott  are  singu- 
lar, considering,  too,  the  position  he  occupied  in 
the  world  of  letters.  "  I  promise  you,"  he  says,  in 
an  epistle  to  an  old  friend,  "  my  oaks  will  outlast 
my  laurels ;  and  I  pique  myself  more  on  my  com- 
positions for  manure  than  on  any  other  composi- 
tions to  which  I  was  ever  accessory."  This  may 
seem  hadiiiage;  but  he  repeatedly,  both  in  writ- 
ing and  conversation,  places  hterature,  as  a  profes- 
sion, below  other  intellectual  professions,  and  espe- 
cially the  military.  The  Duke  of  Wellington,  the 
representative  of  the  last,  seems  to  have  drawn 
from  him  a  very  extraordinary  degree  of  defer- 
ence, which  we  cannot  but  think  smacks  a  little  of 
that  strong  rehsh  for  gunpowder  which  he  avows 
in  himself. 

It  is  not  very  easy  to  see  on  what  this  low  esti- 
mate of  literature  rested.  As  a  profession,  it  has 
too  little  in  common  with  more  active  ones  to 
afford  much  ground  for  running  a  parallel.  The 
soldier  has  to  do  with  externals;   and  his  contests 


234.  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

and  triumphs  are  over  matter  in  its  various  forms, 
whether  of  man  or  material  nature.  The  poet 
deals  with  the  bodiless  forms  of  air,  of  fancy 
lighter  than  air.  His  business  is  contemplative; 
the  other's  is  active,  and  depends  for  its  success  on 
strong  moral  energy  and  presence  of  mind.  He 
must,  indeed,  have  genius  of  the  highest  order  to 
eiFect  his  own  combinations,  anticipate  the  move- 
ments of  his  enemy,  and  dart  with  eagle  eye  on  his 
vulnerable  point.  But  who  shall  say  that  this  prac- 
tical genius,  if  we  may  so  term  it,  is  to  rank  higher 
in  the  scale  than  the  creative  power  of  the  poet,  the 
spark  from  the  mind  of  divinity  itself? 

The  orator  might  seem  to  afford  better  ground 
for  comparison,  since,  though  his  theatre  of  action 
is  abroad,  he  may  be  said  to  work  with  much  the 
same  tools  as  the  writer.  Yet  how  much  of  his  suc- 
cess depends  on  qualities  other  than  intellectual  I 
"  Action,"  said  the  father  of  eloquence,  "  action, 
action,  are  the  three  most  essential  things  to  an  ora- 
tor." How  much  depends  on  the  look,  the  gesture, 
the  magical  tones  of  voice,  modulated  to  the  pas- 
sions he  has  stirred,  and  how  much  on  the  con- 
tagious sympathies  of  the  audience  itself,  which 
drown  every  thing  like  criticism  in  the  overwhelm- 
ing tide  of  emotion!  If  anyone  would  know  how 
much,  let  him,  after  patiently  standing 

"till  his  feet  throb. 
And  his  head  thumps,  to  feed  upon  the  breath 
Of  patriots  bursting  with  heroic  rage," 

read  the  same  speech  in  the  columns  of  a  morning 
newspaper  or  in  the  well-concocted  report  of  the 
orator  himself.    The  productions  of  the  writer  are 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  235 

subjected  to  a  fiercer  ordeal.  He  has  no  excited 
sympathies  of  numbers  to  hurry  his  readers  along 
over  his  blunders.  He  is  scanned  in  the  calm 
silence  of  the  closet.  Every  flower  of  fancy  seems 
here  to  wither  under  the  rude  breath  of  criticism; 
every  link  in  the  chain  of  argument  is  subjected  to 
the  touch  of  prying  scrutiny,  and  if  there  be  the 
least  flaw  in  it  it  is  sure  to  be  detected.  There  is 
no  tribunal  so  stern  as  the  secret  tribunal  of  a 
man's  own  closet,  far  removed  from  all  the  sym- 
pathetic impulses  of  humanity.  Surely  there  is  no 
form  in  which  intellect  can  be  exhibited  to  the 
world  so  completely  stripped  of  all  adventitious 
aids  as  the  form  of  written  composition.  But,  says 
the  practical  man,  let  us  estimate  things  by  their 
utility.  "  You  talk  of  the  poems  of  Homer,"  said 
a  mathematician,  *'  but,  after  all,  what  do  they 
prove? "  A  question  which  involves  an  answer 
somewhat  too  voluminous  for  the  tail  of  an  article. 
But  if  the  poems  of  Homer  were,  as  Heeren  as- 
serts, the  principal  bond  which  held  the  Grecian 
states  together  and  gave  them  a  national  feeling, 
they  "  prove  "  more  than  all  the  arithmeticians  of 
Greece — and  there  were  many  cunning  ones  in  it — - 
ever  proved.  The  results  of  military  skill  are  in- 
deed obvious.  The  soldier,  by  a  single  victory,  en- 
larges the  limits  of  an  empire ;  he  may  do  more, — 
he  may  achieve  the  liberties  of  a  nation,  or  roll  back 
the  tide  of  barbarism  ready  to  overwhelm  them. 
Wellington  was  placed  in  such  a  position,  and 
nobly  did  he  do  his  work ;  or,  rather,  he  was  placed 
at  the  head  of  such  a  gigantic  moral  and  physical 
apparatus  as  enabled  him  to  do  it.    With  his  own 


236  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

unassisted  strength,  of  course,  he  could  have  done 
nothing.  But  it  is  on  his  own  sohtary  resources 
that  the  great  writer  is  to  rely.  And  yet  who  shall 
say  that  the  triumphs  of  Wellington  have  been 
greater  than  those  of  Scott,  whose  works  are 
f  amihar  as  household  words  to  every  fireside  in  his 
own  land,  from  the  castle  to  the  cottage, — have 
crossed  oceans  and  deserts,  and,  with  healing  on 
their  wings,  found  their  way  to  the  remotest  re- 
gions,— have  helped  to  form  the  character,  until  his 
own  mind  may  be  said  to  be  incorporated  into  those 
of  hundreds  of  thousands  of  his  fellow-men  ?  Who 
is  there  that  has  not,  at  some  time  or  other,  felt  the 
heaviness  of  his  heart  lightened,  his  pains  miti- 
gated, and  his  bright  moments  of  life  made  still 
brighter  by  the  magical  touches  of  his  genius? 
And  shall  we  speak  of  his  victories  as  less  real,  less 
serviceable  to  humanity,  less  truly  glorious  than 
those  of  the  greatest  captain  of  his  day?  The  tri- 
umphs of  the  warrior  are  bounded  by  the  narrow 
theatre  of  his  own  age ;  but  those  of  a  Scott  or  a 
Shakespeare  will  be  renewed  with  greater  and 
greater  lustre  in  ages  yet  unborn,  when  the  victori- 
ous chieftain  shall  be  forgotten,  or  shall  live  only 
in  the  song  of  the  minstrel  and  the  page  of  the 
chronicler. 

But,  after  all,  this  sort  of  parallel  is  not  very 
gracious  nor  very  philosophical,  and,  to  say  truth, 
is  somewhat  foolish.  We  have  been  drawn  into  it 
by  the  not  random,  but  very  deliberate  and,  in  our 
poor  judgment,  very  disparaging  estimate  by 
Scott  of  his  own  vocation ;  and,  as  we  have  taken 
the  trouble  to  write  it,  our  readers  will  excuse  us 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  237 

from  blotting  it  out.  There  is  too  little  ground 
for  the  respective  parties  to  stand  on  for  a  parallel. 
As  to  the  pedantic  cui  bono  standard,  it  is  impos- 
sible to  tell  the  final  issues  of  a  single  act;  how 
can  we  then  hope  to  those  of  a  course  of  action? 
As  for  the  honor  of  different  vocations,  there  never 
was  a  truer  sentence  than  the  stale  one  of  Pope, — 
stale  now,  because  it  is  so  true, — 

"Act  well  your  part — there  all  the  honor  lies." 

And  it  is  the  just  boast  of  our  own  country  that  in 
no  civilized  nation  is  the  force  of  this  philanthropic 
maxim  so  nobly  illustrated  as  in  ours, — thanks  to 
our  glorious  institutions. 

A  great  cause,  probably,  of  Scott's  low  esti- 
mate of  letters  was  the  facility  with  which  he 
wrote.  What  costs  us  little  we  are  apt  to  prize 
little.  If  diamonds  were  as  common  as  pebbles, 
and  gold-dust  as  any  other,  who  would  stoop  to 
gather  them?  It  was  the  prostitution  of  his  muse, 
by-the-by,  for  this  same  gold-dust,  which  brought 
a  sharp  rebuke  on  the  poet  from  Lord  Byron,  in 
his  "Enghsh  Bards:" 

"For  this  we  spurn  Apollo's  venal  son;" 

a  coarse  cut,  and  the  imputation  about  as  true  as 
most  satire, — that  is,  not  true  at  all.  This  was  in- 
dited in  his  lordship's  earlier  days,  when  he  most 
chivalrously  disclaimed  all  purpose  of  bartering  his 
rhymes  for  gold.  He  lived  long  enough,  however, 
to  weigh  his  literary  wares  in  the  same  money -bal- 
ance used  by  more  vulgar  manufacturers ;  and,  in 
truth,  it  would  be  ridiculous  if  the  produce  of  the 


238  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

brain  should  not  bring  its  price  in  this  form  as  well 
as  any  other.  There  is  little  danger,  we  imagine, 
of  finding  too  much  gold  in  the  bowels  of  Par- 
nassus. 

Scott  took  a  more  sensible  view  of  things.  In 
a  letter  to  Ellis,  written  soon  after  the  pubUcation 
of  "  The  Minstrelsy,"  he  observes,  "  People  may 
say  this  and  that  of  the  pleasure  of  fame,  or  of 
profit,  as  a  motive  of  writing;  I  think  the  only 
pleasure  is  in  the  actual  exertion  and  research,  and 
I  would  no  more  write  on  any  other  terms  than  I 
would  hunt  merely  to  dine  upon  hare  soup.  At 
the  same  time,  if  credit  and  profit  came  unlooked 
for,  I  would  no  more  quarrel  with  them  than  with 
the  soup."  Even  this  declaration  was  somewhat 
more  magnanimous  than  was  warranted  by  his  sub- 
sequent conduct.  The  truth  is,  he  soon  found  out, 
especially  after  the  Waverley  vein  had  opened, 
that  he  had  hit  on  a  gold-mine.  The  prodigious 
returns  he  got  gave  the  whole  thing  the  aspect  of 
a  speculation.  Every  new  work  was  an  adventure, 
and  the  proceeds  naturally  suggested  the  indul- 
gence of  the  most  extravagant  schemes  of  expense, 
which,  in  their  turn,  stimulated  him  to  fresh  efforts. 
In  this  way  the  "  profits  "  became,  whatever  they 
might  have  been  once,  a  principal  incentive  to,  as 
they  were  the  recompense  of,  exertion.  His  pro- 
ductions were  cash  articles,  and  were  estimated  by 
him  more  on  the  Hudibrastic  rule  of  "  the  real 
worth  of  a  thing  "  than  by  any  fanciful  standard 
of  fame.  He  bowed  with  deference  to  the  judg- 
ment of  the  booksellers,  and  trimmed  his  sails  dex- 
terously as  the  "  aura  popularis  "  shifted.    "  If  it's 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  239 

na  well  bobbit,"  he  writes  to  his  printer,  on  turning 
out  a  less  lucky  novel,  "  we'll  bobbit  again."  His 
muse  was  of  that  school  who  seek  the  greatest  hap- 
piness of  the  greatest  number.  We  can  hardly  im- 
agine him  invoking  her  like  JMilton : 

"  still  govern  thou  my  song, 
Urania,  and  fit  audience  find,  though  few." 

Still  less  can  we  imagine  him,  like  the  blind  old 
bard,  feeding  his  soul  with  visions  of  posthumous 
glory,  and  spinning  out  epics  for  five  pounds 
apiece. 

It  is  singular  that  Scott,  although  he  set  as  high 
a  money  value  on  his  productions  as  the  most  en- 
thusiastic of  the  "  trade  "  could  have  done,  in  a  ht- 
erary  view  should  have  held  them  so  cheap. 
"  Whatever  others  may  be,"  he  said,  "  I  have  never 
been  a  partisan  of  my  own  poetry ;  as  John  Wilkes 
declared  that,  '  in  the  height  of  his  success,  he  had 
himself  never  been  a  Wilkite.'  "  Considering  the 
poet's  popularity,  this  was  but  an  indifferent  com- 
pliment to  the  taste  of  his  age.  With  all  this  dis- 
paragement of  his  own  productions,  however, 
Scott  was  not  insensible  to  criticism.  He  says 
somewhere  that,  "if  he  had  been  conscious  of  a 
single  vulnerable  point  in  himself,  he  would  not 
have  taken  up  the  business  of  wTiting;"  but  on 
another  occasion  he  writes,  "  I  make  it  a  rule  never 
to  read  the  attacks  made  upon  me;"  and  Captain 
Hall  remarks,  "  He  never  reads  the  criticisms  on 
his  books ;  this  I  know  from  the  most  unquestion- 
able authority.  Praise,  he  says,  gives  him  no  pleas- 
ure, and  censure  annoys  him."    Madame  de  Graf- 


240  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

figny  says,  also,  of  Voltaire,  "  that  he  was 
altogether  indifferent  to  praise,  but  the  least  word 
from  his  enemies  drove  him  crazy."  Yet  both  these 
authors  banqueted  on  the  sweets  of  panegyric  as 
much  as  any  who  ever  lived.  They  were  in  the 
condition  of  an  epicure  whose  palate  has  lost  its 
relish  for  the  dainty  fare  in  which  it  has  been  so 
long  revelling,  without  becoming  less  sensible  to 
the  annoyances  of  sharper  and  coarser  flavors.  It 
may  afford  some  consolation  to  humble  medioc- 
rity, to  the  less  fortunate  votaries  of  the  muse,  that 
those  who  have  reached  the  summit  of  Parnassus 
are  not  much  more  contented  with  their  condition 
than  those  who  are  scrambling  among  the  bushes 
at  the  bottom  of  the  mountain.  The  fact  seems  to 
be,  as  Scott  himself  intimates  more  than  once,  that 
the  joy  is  in  the  chase,  whether  in  the  prose  or  the 
poetry  of  life. 

But  it  is  high  time  to  terminate  our  lucubrations, 
which,  however  imperfect  and  unsatisfactory,  have 
already  run  to  a  length  that  must  trespass  on  the 
patience  of  the  reader.  We  rise  from  the  perusal 
of  these  delightful  volumes  with  the  same  sort 
of  melancholy  feeling  with  which  we  wake  from  a 
pleasant  dream.  The  concluding  volume,  of  which 
such  ominous  presage  is  given  in  the  last  sentence 
of  the  fifth,  has  not  yet  reached  us ;  but  we  know 
enough  to  anticipate  the  sad  catastrophe  it  is  to 
unfold  of  the  drama.  In  those  which  we  have  seen, 
we  have  beheld  a  succession  of  interesting  charac- 
ters come  upon  the  scene  and  pass  away  to  their 
long  home.  "  Bright  eyes  now  closed  in  dust,  gay 
voices  forever  silenced,"  seem  to  haunt  us,  too,  as 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  241 

we  write.  The  imagination  reverts  to  Abbotsf  ord, 
— the  romantic  and  once  brilliant  Abbotsf  ord, — 
the  magical  creation  of  his  hands.  We  see  its  halls 
radiant  with  the  hospitality  of  Ms  benevolent 
heart;  thronged  with  pilgrims  from  every  land, 
assembled  to  pay  homage  at  the  shrine  of  genius; 
echoing  to  the  blithe  music  of  those  festal  holidays 
when  young  and  old  met  to  renew  the  usages  of 
the  good  old  times. 

"  These  were  its  charms,  but  all  these  charms  are  fled." 

Its  courts  are  desolate,  or  trodden  only  by  the 
foot  of  the  stranger.  The  stranger  sits  under  the 
shadows  of  the  trees  which  his  hand  planted.  The 
spell  of  the  enchanter  is  dissolved;  his  wand  is 
broken;  and  the  mighty  minstrel  himself  now 
sleeps  in  the  bosom  of  the  peaceful  scenes  embel- 
lished by  his  taste,  and  which  his  genius  has  made 
immortal. 


Vol.  I.— 16 


CHATEAUBRIAND'S     ENGLISH     LIT- 
ERATURE * 

(October,  1839) 

rpHERE  are  few  topics  of  greater  attraction, 
-^  or,  when  properly  treated,  of  higher  impor- 
tance, than  Hterary  history.  For  what  is  it  but  a 
faithful  register  of  the  successive  steps  by  which 
a  nation  has  advanced  in  the  career  of  civilization? 
Civil  history  records  the  crimes  and  the  follies,  the 
enterprises,  discoveries,  and  triumphs,  it  may  be,  of 
humanity.  But  to  what  do  all  these  tend,  or  of 
what  moment  are  they  in  the  eye  of  the  philoso- 
pher, except  as  they  accelerate  or  retard  the  march 
of  civilization?  The  history  of  literature  is  the  his- 
tory of  the  human  mind.  It  is,  as  compared  with 
other  histories,  the  intellectual  as  distinguished 
from  the  material, — the  informing  spirit,  as  com- 
pared with  the  outward  and  visible. 

When  such  a  view  of  the  mental  progress  of  a 
people  is  combined  with  individual  biography,  we 
have  all  the  materials  for  the  deepest  and  most 
varied  interest.  The  life  of  the  man  of  letters  is 
not  always  circumscribed  by  the  walls  of  a  cloister, 
and  was  not,  even  in  those  days  when  the  cloister 
was  the  familiar  abode  of  science.  The  history  of 
Dante  and  of  Petrarch  is  the  best  commentary  on 
that  of  their  age.    In  later  times,  the  man  of  let- 

*"  Sketches  of   English  Literature;    with  Considerations  on   the 
Spirit  of  the  Times,  Men,  and  Revolutions.     By  the  Viscount   de 
Chateaubriand."     2  vols.  8vo,     London,  1836. 
242 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  243 

ters  has  taken  part  in  all  the  principal  concerns 
of  public  and  social  life.  But,  even  when  the  story 
is  to  derive  its  interest  from  personal  character, 
what  a  store  of  entertainment  is  supplied  by  the 
eccentricities  of  genius, — the  joys  and  sorrows, 
not  visible  to  vulgar  eyes,  but  which  agitate  his 
iiner  sensibilities  as  powerfully  as  the  greatest 
shocks  of  worldly  fortune  would  a  hardier  and  less 
visionary  temper!  What  deeper  interest  can  ro- 
mance afford  than  is  to  be  gathered  from  the  mel- 
ancholy story  of  Petrarch,  Tasso,  Alfieri,  Rous- 
seau, Byron,  Burns,  and  a  crowd  of  familiar 
names,  whose  genius  seems  to  have  been  given 
them  only  to  sharpen  their  sensibility  to  suffering  ? 
What  matter  if  their  sufferings  were,  for  the  most 
part,  of  the  imagination  ?  They  were  not  the  less 
real  to  them.  They  lived  in  a  world  of  imagina- 
tion, and,  by  the  gift  of  genius,  unfortunate  to  its 
proprietor,  have  known  how,  in  the  language  of 
one  of  the  most  unfortunate,  "  to  make  madness 
beautiful "  in  the  eyes  of  others. 

But,  notwithstanding  the  interest  and  impor- 
tance of  literary  history,  it  has  hitherto  received 
but  little  attention  from  English  writers.  No 
complete  survey  of  the  treasures  of  our  native 
tongue  has  been  yet  produced,  or  even  attempted. 
The  earlier  periods  of  the  poetical  development  of 
the  nation  have  been  well  illustrated  by  various  an- 
tiquarians. Warton  has  brought  the  history  of 
poetry  down  to  the  season  of  its  first  vigorous  ex- 
pansion,— the  age  of  Elizabeth.  But  he  did  not 
penetrate  beyond  the  magnificent  vestibule  of  the 
temple.    Dr.  Johnson's  "  Lives  of  the  Poets  "  have 


244  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

done  much  to  supply  the  deficiency  in  this  depart- 
ment. But  much  more  remains  to  be  done  to 
aiFord  the  student  any  thing  hke  a  complete  view 
of  the  progress  of  poetry  in  England.  Johnson's 
work,  as  every  one  knows,  is  conducted  on  the  most 
capricious  and  irregular  plan.  The  biographies 
were  dictated  by  the  choice  of  the  bookseller.  Some 
of  the  most  memorable  names  in  British  literature 
are  omitted  to  make  way  for  a  host  of  minor  lu- 
minaries, whose  dim  radiance,  unassisted  by  the 
critic's  magnifying  lens,  would  never  have  pene- 
trated to  posterity.  The  same  irregularity  is  visi- 
ble in  the  proportion  he  has  assigned  to  each  of  his 
subjects;  the  principal  figures,  or  what  should 
have  been  such,  being  often  thrown  into  the  back- 
ground to  make  room  for  some  subordinate  person 
whose  story  was  thought  to  have  more  interest. 

Besides  these  defects  of  plan,  the  critic  was  cer- 
tainly deficient  in  sensibility  to  the  more  delicate, 
the  minor  beauties  of  poetic  sentiment.  He  an- 
alyzes verse  in  the  cold-blooded  spirit  of  a  chemist, 
until  all  the  aroma  which  constituted  its  principal 
charm  escapes  in  the  decomposition.  By  this  kind 
of  process,  some  of  the  finest  fancies  of  the  Muse, 
the  lofty  dithyrambics  of  Gray,  the  ethereal  effu- 
sions of  Collins,  and  of  Milton  too,  are  rendered 
sufficiently  vapid.  In  this  sort  of  criticism,  all  the 
eff^ect  that  relies  on  impressions  goes  for  nothing. 
Ideas  are  alone  taken  into  the  account,  and  aU  is 
weighed  in  the  same  hard,  matter-of-fact  scales  of 
common  sense,  like  so  much  solid  prose.  What  a 
sorry  figure  would  Byron's  Muse  make  subjected 
to  such  an  ordeal!    The  doctor's  taste  in  composi- 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  245 

tion,  to  judge  from  his  own  style,  was  not  of  the 
highest  order.  It  was  a  style,  indeed,  of  extraor- 
dinary power,  suited  to  the  expression  of  his  orig- 
inal thinking,  bold,  vigorous,  and  glowing  with  all 
the  lustre  of  pointed  antithesis.  But  the  brilliancy 
is  cold,  and  the  ornaments  are  much  too  florid  and 
overcharged  for  a  graceful  effect.  When  to  these 
minor  blemishes  we  add  the  graver  one  of  an  ob- 
liquity of  judgment,  produced  by  inveterate  poht- 
ical  and  religious  prejudice,  which  has  thrown  a 
shadow  over  some  of  the  brightest  characters  sub- 
jected to  his  pencil,  we  have  summed  up  a  fair 
amount  of  critical  deficiencies.  With  all  this,  there 
is  no  one  of  the  works  of  this  great  and  good  man 
in  which  he  has  displayed  more  of  the  strength 
of  his  mighty  intellect,  shown  a  more  pure  and 
masculine  morality,  more  sound  principles  of  crit- 
icism in  the  abstract,  more  acute  delineation  of 
character,  and  more  gorgeous  splendor  of  diction. 
His  defects,  however,  such  as  they  are,  must  pre- 
vent his  maintaining  with  posterity  that  undis- 
puted dictatorship  in  criticism  which  was  conceded 
to  him  in  his  own  day.  We  must  do  justice  to  his 
errors  as  well  as  to  his  excellences,  in  order  that  we 
may  do  justice  to  the  characters  which  have  come 
under  his  censure.  And  we  must  admit  that  his 
work,  however  admirable  as  a  gallery  of  splendid 
portraits,  is  inadequate  to  convey  any  thing  like  a 
complete  or  impartial  view  of  EngHsh  poetry. 

The  English  have  made  but  slender  contribu- 
tions to  the  history  of  foreign  literatures.  The 
most  important,  probably,  are  Roscoe's  works,  in 
which  literary  criticism,  though  but  a  subordinate 


246  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

feature,  is  the  most  valuable  part  of  the  compo- 
sition. As  to  any  thing  like  a  general  survey  of 
this  department,  they  are  wholly  deficient.  The 
deficiency,  indeed,  is  hkely  to  be  suppKed,  to  a  cer- 
tain extent,  by  the  work  of  Mr.  Hallam,  now  in 
progress  of  publication,  the  first  volume  of  which 
— the  only  one  which  has  yet  issued  from  the  press 
— gives  evidence  of  the  same  curious  erudition, 
acuteness,  honest  impartiality,  and  energy  of  dic- 
tion which  distinguish  the  other  writings  of  this 
eminent  scholar.  But  the  extent  of  his  work,  lim- 
ited to  four  volumes,  precludes  any  thing  more 
than  a  survey  of  the  most  prominent  features  of 
the  vast  subject  he  has  undertaken. 

The  Continental  nations,  under  serious  dis- 
couragements, too,  have  been  much  more  active 
than  the  British  in  this  field.  The  Spaniards  can 
boast  a  general  history  of  letters,  extending  to 
more  than  twenty  volumes  in  length,  and  compiled 
with  suflScient  impartiality.  The  Italians  have  sev- 
eral such.  Yet  these  are  the  lands  of  the  Inquisi- 
tion, where  reason  is  hoodwinked  and  the  honest 
utterance  of  opinion  has  been  recompensed  by  per- 
secution, exile,  and  the  stake.  How  can  such  a  peo- 
ple estimate  the  character  of  compositions  which, 
produced  under  happier  institutions,  are  instinct 
with  the  spirit  of  freedom!  How  can  they  make 
allowance  for  the  manifold  eccentricities  of  a  lit- 
erature where  thought  is  allowed  to  expatiate  in  all 
the  independence  of  individual  caprice !  How  can 
they  possibly,  trained  to  pay  such  nice  deference  to 
outward  finish  and  mere  verbal  elegance,  have  any 
sympathy  with  the  rough  and  homely  beauties 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  Ml 

which  emanate  from  the  people  and  are  addressed 
to  the  people? 

The  French,  nurtured  under  freer  forms  of  gov- 
ernment, have  contrived  to  come  under  a  system 
of  literary  laws  scarcely  less  severe.  Their  first 
great  dramatic  production  gave  rise  to  a  scheme 
of  critical  legislation  which  has  continued  ever 
since  to  press  on  the  genius  of  the  nation  in  all 
the  higher  walks  of  poetic  art.  Amid  all  the  muta- 
tions of  state,  the  tone  of  criticism  has  remained 
essentially  the  same  to  the  present  century,  when, 
indeed,  the  boiling  passions  and  higher  excite- 
ments of  a  revolutionary  age  have  made  the  classic 
models  on  which  their  hterature  was  cast  appear 
somewhat  too  frigid,  and  a  warmer  coloring 
has  been  sought  by  an  infusion  of  English  senti- 
ment. But  this  mixture,  or  rather  confusion,  of 
styles,  neither  French  nor  English,  seems  to  rest 
on  no  settled  principles,  and  is,  probably,  too 
alien  to  the  genius  of  the  people  to  continue  per- 
manent. 

The  French,  forming  themselves  early  on  a 
foreign  and  antique  model,  were  necessarily  driven 
to  rules,  as  a  substitute  for  those  natural  prompt- 
ings which  have  directed  the  course  of  other 
modern  nations,  in  the  career  of  letters.  Such 
rules,  of  course,  while  assimilating  them  to  an- 
tiquity, drew  them  aside  from  sympathy  with  their 
own  contemporaries.  How  can  they,  thus  formed 
on  an  artificial  system,  enter  into  the  spirit  of  other 
literatures  so  uncongenial  with  their  own  ? 

That  the  French  continued  subject  to  such  a 
system,  with  little  change  to  the  present  age,  is 


248  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

evinced  by  the  example  of  Voltaire,  a  writer  whose 
lawless  ridicule, 

"  like  the  wind, 
Blew  where  it  listed,  laying  all  things  prone," 

but  whose  revolutionary  spirit  made  no  serious 
changes  in  the  principles  of  the  national  criticism. 
Indeed,  his  commentaries  on  Corneille  furnish 
evidence  of  a  willingness  to  contract  still  closer  the 
range  of  the  poet,  and  to  define  more  accurately 
the  laws  by  which  his  movements  were  to  be  con- 
trolled. Voltaire's  history  aiFords  an  evidence  of 
the  truth  of  the  Horatian  maxim,  "  naturam  ex- 
pellasj"  etc.  In  his  younger  days  he  passed  some 
time,  as  is  well  known,  in  England,  and  contracted 
there  a  certain  relish  for  the  strange  models  which 
came  under  his  observation.  On  his  return  he 
made  many  attempts  to  introduce  the  foreign 
school  with  which  he  had  become  acquainted  to  his 
own  countrymen.  His  vanity  was  gratified  by  de- 
tecting the  latent  beauties  of  his  barbarian  neigh- 
bors and  by  being  the  first  to  point  them  out  to  his 
countrymen.  It  associated  him  with  names  vener- 
ated on  the  other  side  of  the  Channel,  and  at  home 
transferred  a  part  of  their  glory  to  himself.  In- 
deed, he  was  not  backward  in  transferring  as  much 
as  he  could  of  it,  by  borrowing  on  his  own  account, 
where  he  could  venture,  manihus  plenis,  and  with 
very  little  acknowledgment.  The  French  at  length 
became  so  far  reconciled  to  the  monstrosities  of 
their  neighbors  that  a  regular  translation  of  Shak- 
speare,  the  lord  of  the  British  Pandemonium,  was 
executed  by  Letourneur,  a  scholar  of  no  great 
merit;  but  the  work  was  well  received.    Voltaire, 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  249 

the  veteran,  in  his  solitude  of  Ferney,  was  roused, 
by  the  applause  bestowed  on  the  English  poet  in 
his  Parisian  costume,  to  a  sense  of  his  own  im- 
prudence. He  saw,  in  imagination,  the  altars 
which  had  been  raised  to  him,  as  well  as  to  the  other 
master-spirits  of  the  national  drama,  in  a  fair  way 
to  be  overturned  in  order  to  make  room  for  an  idol 
of  his  own  importation.  "  Have  you  seen,"  he 
writes,  speaking  of  Letourneur's  version,  "  his 
abominable  trash?  Will  you  endure  the  affront 
put  upon  France  by  it?  There  are  no  epithets  bad 
enough,  nor  fool's-caps,  nor  pillories  enough  in 
all  France  for  such  a  scoundrel.  The  blood  tingles 
in  my  old  veins  in  speaking  of  him.  What  is  the 
most  dreadful  part  of  the  affair  is,  the  monster  has 
his  party  in  France ;  and,  to  add  to  my  shame  and 
consternation,  it  was  I  who  fii'st  sounded  the 
praises  of  this  Shakspeare, — I  who  fii'st  showed 
the  pearls,  picked  here  and  there,  from  his  over- 
grown dung-heap.  Little  did  I  anticipate  that  I 
was  helping  to  trample  under  foot,  at  some  future 
day,  the  laurels  of  Racine  and  CorneiUe  to  adorn 
the  brows  of  a  barbarous  player, — this  drunkard 
of  a  Shakspeare."  Xot  content  with  this  expecto- 
ration of  his  bile,  the  old  poet  transmitted  a  formal 
letter  of  remonstrance  to  D'Alembert,  which  was 
read  publicly,  as  designed,  at  a  regular  seance  of 
the  Academy.  The  document,  after  expatiating 
at  length  on  the  blunders,  vulgarities,  and  indecen- 
cies of  the  English  bard,  concludes  with  this  appeal 
to  the  critical  body  he  was  addressing:  "  Paint  to 
yourselves,  gentlemen,  Louis  the  Fourteenth  in  his 
gaUery  at  Versailles,  surrounded  by  his  brilliant 


250  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

court:  a  tatterdemalion  advances,  covered  with 
rags,  and  proposes  to  the  assembly  to  abandon  the 
tragedies  of  Racine  for  a  mountebank,  full  of 
grimaces,  with  nothing  but  a  lucky  hit,  now  and 
then,  to  redeem  them." 

At  a  later  period,  Ducis,  the  successor  of  Vol- 
taire, if  we  remember  right,  in  the  Academy,  a 
writer  of  far  superior  merit  to  Letourneur,  did  the 
British  bard  into  much  better  French  than  his  pre- 
decessor; though  Ducis,  as  he  takes  care  to  ac- 
quaint us,  "  did  his  best  to  efface  those  startling 
impressions  of  horror  which  would  have  damned 
his  author  in  the  poHshed  theatres  of  Paris !  "  Vol- 
taire need  not  have  taken  the  affair  so  much  to 
heart.  Shakspeare,  reduced  within  the  compass,  as 
much  as  possible,  of  the  rules,  with  all  his  eccen- 
tricities and  peculiarities — all  that  made  him  Eng- 
lish, in  fact — smoothed  away,  may  be  tolerated, 
and  to  a  certain  extent  countenanced,  in  the  "  pol- 
ished theatres  of  Paris."    But  this  is  not 

"  Shakspeare,   Nature's   child, 
Warbling  his  native  wood-notes  wild." 

The  Germans  are  just  the  antipodes  of  their 
French  neighbors.  Coming  late  on  the  arena  of 
modern  literature,  they  would  seem  to  be  particu- 
larly qualified  for  excelling  in  criticism  by  the 
variety  of  styles  and  models  for  their  study  sup- 
plied by  other  nations.  They  have,  accordingly, 
done  wonders  in  this  department,  and  have  extend- 
ed their  critical  wand  over  the  remotest  regions, 
dispelling  the  mists  of  old  prejudice,  and  throw- 
ing the  light  of  learning  on  what  before  was  dark 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  251 

and  inexplicable.  They  certainly  are  entitled  to 
the  credit  of  a  singularly  cosmopolitan  power  of 
divesting  themselves  of  local  and  national  preju- 
dice. No  nation  has  done  so  much  to  lay  the 
foundations  of  that  reconcihng  spirit  of  criticism 
which,  instead  of  condemning  a  difference  of  taste 
in  different  nations  as  a  departure  from  it,  seeks  to 
explain  such  discrepancies  by  the  peculiar  circum- 
stances of  the  nation,  and  thus  from  the  elements 
of  discord,  as  it  were,  to  build  up  a  universal  and 
harmonious  system.  The  exclusive  and  unfavor- 
able \dews  entertained  by  some  of  their  later  critics 
respecting  the  French  literature,  indeed,  into  which 
they  have  been  urged,  no  doubt,  by  a  desire  to 
counteract  the  servile  deference  shown  to  that  liter- 
ature by  their  countrymen  of  the  preceding  age, 
forms  an  important  exception  to  their  usual 
candor. 

As  general  critics,  however,  the  Germans  are 
open  to  grave  objections.  The  very  circumstances 
of  their  situation,  so  favorable,  as  we  have  said, 
to  the  formation  of  a  liberal  criticism,  have 
encouraged  the  taste  for  theories  and  for  sys- 
tem-building, always  unpropitious  to  truth.  Who- 
ever broaches  a  theory  has  a  hard  battle  to  fight 
with  conscience.  If  the  theory  cannot  conform 
to  the  facts,  so  much  the  worse  for  the  facts,  as 
some  wag  has  said;  they  must,  at  all  events,  con- 
form to  the  theory.  The  Germans  have  put  to- 
gether hypotheses  with  the  facility  with  which 
children  construct  card  houses,  and  many  of  them 
bid  fair  to  last  as  long.  They  show  more  industry 
in  accumulating  materials  than  taste  or  discretion 


252  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

in  their  arrangement.  They  carry  their  fantastic 
imagination  beyond  the  legitimate  province  of  the 
muse  into  the  sober  fields  of  criticism.  Their 
philosophical  systems,  curiously  and  elaborately 
devised,  with  much  ancient  lore  and  solemn  im- 
aginings, may  remind  one  of  some  of  those  vener- 
able English  cathedrals  where  the  magnificent 
and  mysterious  Gothic  is  blended  with  the  clumsy 
Saxon.*  The  effect,  on  the  whole,  is  grand,  but 
grotesque  withal. 

The  Germans  are  too  often  sadly  wanting  in 
discretion,  or,  in  vulgar  parlance,  taste.  They  are 
perpetually  overleaping  the  modesty  of  nature. 
They  are  possessed  by  a  cold-blooded  enthusiasm, 
if  we  may  say  so, — since  it  seems  to  come  rather 
from  the  head  than  the  heart, — which  spurs  them 
on  over  the  plainest  barriers  of  common  sense, 
until  even  the  right  becomes  the  wrong.  A  strik- 
ing example  of  these  defects  is  furnished  by  the 
dramatic  critic  Schlegel,  whose  "  Lectures  "  are, 
or  may  be,  familiar  to  every  reader,  since  they 
have  been  reprinted  in  the  English  version  in  this 
country.  No  critic,  not  even  a  native,  has  thrown 
such  a  flood  of  light  on  the  characteristics  of  the 
sweet  bard  of  Avon.  He  has  made  himself  so 
intimately  acquainted  with  the  peculiar  circum- 
stances of  the  poet's  age  and  country  that  he  has 
been  enabled  to  speculate  on  his  productions  as 
those  of  a  contemporary.  In  this  way  he  has 
furnished  a  key  to  the  mysteries  of  his  composition, 
has  reduced  what  seemed  anomalous  to  system, 

*  This  sentence  was  penned  before  Prescott  had  seen  any  Eng- 
lish cathedrals.  It  would  be  difficult  to  discern  any  clumsy  Saxon 
in  those  structures. — M. 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  253 

and  has  supplied  Shakspeare's  own  countrymen 
with  new  arguments  for  vindicating  the  sponta- 
neous suggestions  of  feeling  on  strictly  philosoph- 
ical principles.  Not  content  with  this  important 
service,  he,  as  usual,  pushes  his  argument  to  ex- 
tremes, vindicates  obvious  blemishes  as  necessary 
parts  of  a  system,  and  calls  on  us  to  admire,  in 
contradiction  to  the  most  ordinary  principles  of 
taste  and  common  sense.  Thus,  for  example, 
speaking  of  Shakspeare's  notorious  blunders  in 
geography  and  chronology,  he  coolly  tells  us,  "I 
undertake  to  prove  that  Shakspeare's  anachron- 
isms are,  for  the  most  part,  committed  purposely 
and  after  great  consideration."  In  the  same  vein, 
speaking  of  the  poet's  villanous  puns  and  quibbles, 
which,  to  his  shame,  or,  rather,  that  of  his  age,  so 
often  bespangle  with  tawdry  brilhancy  the  majes- 
tic robe  of  the  Muse,  he  assures  us  that  "  the  poet 
here  probably,  as  everywhere  else,  has  followed 
principles  which  will  bear  a  strict  examination." 
But  the  intrepidity  of  criticism  never  went  farther 
than  in  the  conclusion  of  this  same  analysis,  where 
he  unhesitatingly  assigns  several  apocryphal  plays 
to  Shakspeare,  gravely  informing  us  that  the 
last  three,  "  Sir  John  Oldcastle,"  "  A  Yorkshire 
Tragedy,"  and  "  Thomas  Lord  Cromwell,"  of 
which  the  English  critics  speak  with  unreserved 
contempt,  "  are  not  only  unquestionably  Shak- 
speare's, but,  in  his  judgment,  rank  among  the 
best  and  ripest  of  his  works!"  The  old  bard, 
could  he  raise  his  head  from  the  tomb  where  none 
might  disturb  his  bones,  would  exclaim,  we  im- 
agine, "  Non  tali  auxilio!  '* 


254  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

It  shows  a  tolerable  degree  of  assurance  in  a 
critic  thus  to  dogmatize  on  nice  questions  of  ver- 
bal resemblance  which  have  so  long  baffled  the 
natives  of  the  country,  who,  on  such  questions, 
obviously  can  be  the  only  competent  judges.  It 
furnishes  a  striking  example  of  the  want  of  dis- 
cretion noticeable  in  so  many  of  the  German 
scholars.  With  all  these  defects,  however,  it  can- 
not be  denied  that  they  have  widely  extended  the 
limits  of  rational  criticism,  and,  by  their  copious 
stores  of  erudition,  furnished  the  student  with 
facilities  for  attaining  the  best  points  of  view  for 
a  comprehensive  survey  of  both  ancient  and  mod- 
ern literature. 

The  English  have  had  advantages,  on  the  whole, 
greater  than  those  of  any  other  people  for  per- 
fecting the  science  of  general  criticism.  They 
have  had  no  academies  to  bind  the  wing  of  genius 
to  the  earth  by  their  thousand  wire-drawn  subt- 
leties. No  Inquisition  has  placed  its  burning  seal 
upon  the  lip  and  thrown  its  dark  shadow  over  the 
recesses  of  the  soul.  They  have  enjoyed  the  in- 
estimable privilege  of  thinking  what  they  pleased, 
and  of  uttering  what  they  thought.  Their  minds, 
trained  to  independence,  have  had  no  occasion  to 
shrink  from  encountering  any  topic,  and  have  ac- 
quired a  masculine  confidence  indispensable  to  a 
calm  appreciation  of  the  mighty  and  widely  diver- 
sified productions  of  genius,  as  unfolded  under 
the  influences  of  as  widely  diversified  institutions 
and  national  character.  Their  own  licerature,  with 
chameleon-like  delicacy,  has  reflected  all  the 
various  aspects  of  the  nation  in  the  successive 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  255 

stages  of  its  historj^  The  rough,  romantic 
beauties  and  gorgeous  pageantry  of  the  Elizabeth- 
an age,  the  stern,  sublime  enthusiasm  of  the  Com- 
monwealth, the  cold  brilliancy  of  Queen  Anne, 
and  the  tumultuous  movements  and  ardent  sensi- 
bilities of  the  present  generation,  all  have  been 
reflected,  as  in  a  mirror,  in  the  current  of  English 
literature  as  it  has  flowed  down  through  the  lapse 
of  ages.  It  is  easy  to  understand  what  advan- 
tages this  cultivation  of  all  these  different  styles 
of  composition  at  home  must  give  the  critic 
in  divesting  himself  of  narrow  and  local  preju- 
dice, and  in  appreciating  the  genius  of  foreign 
literatures,  in  each  of  which  some  one  or  other  of 
these  different  styles  has  found  favor.  To  this 
must  be  added  the  advantages  derived  from  the 
structure  of  the  English  language  itself,  which, 
compounded  of  the  Teutonic  and  the  Latin,  offers 
facilities  for  a  comprehension  of  other  literatures 
not  afforded  by  those  languages,  as  the  German 
and  the  Italian,  for  instance,  almost  exclusively 
derived  from  but  one  of  them. 

With  all  this,  the  English,  as  we  have  remarked, 
have  made  fewer  direct  contributions  to  general 
literary  criticism  than  the  Continental  nations,  un- 
less, indeed,  we  take  into  the  account  the  period- 
ical criticism,  which  has  covered  the  whole  field 
with  a  light  skirmishing,  very  unlike  any  system- 
atic plan  of  operations.  The  good  efl*ect  of  this 
guerilla  warfare  may  well  be  doubted.  Most  of 
these  critics  for  the  nonce  (and  we  certainly  are 
competent  judges  on  this  point)  come  to  their 
work  with  little  previous  preparation.     Their  at- 


256  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

tention  has  been  habitually  called,  for  the  most 
part,  in  other  directions,  and  they  throw  off  an 
accidental  essay  in  the  brief  intervals  of  other 
occupation.  Hence  their  views  are  necessarily 
often  superficial,  and  sometimes  contradictory,  as 
may  be  seen  from  turning  over  the  leaves  of  any 
journal  where  literary  topics  are  widely  discussed; 
for,  whatever  consistency  may  be  demanded  in 
politics  or  religion,  very  free  scope  is  offered, 
even  in  the  same  journal,  to  literary  speculation. 
Even  when  the  article  may  have  been  the  fruit 
of  a  mind  ripened  by  study  and  meditation  on 
congenial  topics,  it  too  often  exhibits  only  the 
partial  view  suggested  by  the  particular  and 
limited  direction  of  the  author's  thoughts  in  this 
instance.  Truth  is  not  much  served  by  this  ir- 
regular process;  and  the  general  illumination  in- 
dispensable to  a  full  and  fair  survey  of  the  whole 
ground  can  never  be  supplied  from  such  scat- 
tered and  capricious  gleams  thrown  over  it  at 
random. 

Another  obstacle  to  a  right  result  is  founded 
in  the  very  constitution  of  review-writing.  Mis- 
cellaneous in  its  range  of  topics,  and  addressed 
to  a  miscellaneous  class  of  readers,  its  chief  re- 
liance for  success  in  competition  with  the  thousand 
novelties  of  the  day  is  in  the  temporary  interest 
it  can  excite.  Instead  of  a  conscientious  discussion 
and  cautious  examination  of  the  matter  in  hand, 
we  too  often  find  an  attempt  to  stimulate  the 
popular  appetite  by  piquant  sallies  of  wit,  by 
caustic  sarcasm,  or  by  a  pert,  dashing  confidence, 
that  cuts  the  knot  it  cannot  readily  unloose.    Then, 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  257 

again,  the  spirit  of  periodical  criticism  would 
seem  to  be  little  favorable  to  perfect  impartiality. 
The  critic,  shrouded  in  his  secret  tribunal,  too 
often  demeans  himself  like  a  stern  inquisitor, 
whose  business  is  rather  to  convict  than  to  examine. 
Criticism  is  directed  to  scent  out  blemishes  instead 
of  beauties.  "  Judex  damnatur  cum  nocens  ah- 
solvitur"  is  the  bloody  motto  of  a  well-known 
British  periodical,  which,  under  this  piratical  flag, 
has  sent  a  broadside  into  many  a  gallant  bark  that 
deserved  better  at  its  hands. 

When  we  combine  with  all  this  the  spirit  of 
patriotism,  or,  what  passes  for  such  with  nine- 
tenths  of  the  world,  the  spirit  of  national  vanity, 
we  shall  find  abundant  motives  for  a  deviation 
from  a  just,  impartial  estimate  of  foreign  litera- 
tures. And  if  we  turn  over  the  pages  of  the 
best-conducted  English  journals,  we  shall  proba- 
bly find  ample  evidence  of  the  various  causes  we 
have  enumerated.  We  shall  find,  amid  abundance 
of  shrewd  and  sarcastic  observation,  smart  skir- 
mish of  wit,  and  clever  antithesis,  a  very  small 
infusion  of  sober,  dispassionate  criticism ;  the  criti- 
cism founded  on  patient  study  and  on  strictly  phil- 
osophical principles ;  the  criticism  on  which  one  can 
safely  rely  as  the  criterion  of  good  taste,  and  which, 
however  tame  it  may  appear  to  the  jaded  appe- 
tite of  the  literary  lounger,  is  the  only  one  that  will 
attract  the  eye  of  posterity. 

The  work  named  at  the  head  of  our  article 
will,  we  suspect,  notwithstanding  the  author's 
brilliant  reputation,  never  meet  this  same  eye  of 
posterity.     Though  purporting  to  be,  in  its  main 

Vol.  I.— 17 


258  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

design,  an  Essay  on  English  Literature,  it  is,  in 
fact,  a  multifarious  compound  of  as  many  in- 
gredients as  entered  into  the  witches'  caldron,  to 
say  nothing  of  a  gallery  of  portraits  of  dead  and 
living,  among  the  latter  of  whom  M.  de  Chateau- 
briand himself  is  not  the  least  conspicuous.  "  I 
have  treated  of  every  thing,"  he  says,  truly 
enough,  in  his  preface,  "  the  Present,  the  Past, 
the  Future."  The  parts  are  put  together  in  the 
most  grotesque  and  disorderly  manner,  with  some 
striking  coincidences,  occasionally,  of  characters 
and  situations,  and  some  facts  not  familiar  to 
every  reader.  The  most  unpleasant  feature  in 
the  book  is  a  doleful  lamentation  of  the  author 
over  the  evil  times  on  which  he  has  fallen.  He 
has,  indeed,  lived  somewhat  beyond  his  time, 
which  was  that  of  Charles  the  Tenth,  of  pious 
memory, — the  good  old  time  of  apostolicals  and 
absolutists,  which  wiU  not  be  likely  to  revisit 
France  again  very  soon.  Indeed,  our  unfortunate 
author  reminds  one  of  some  weather-beaten  hulk 
which  the  tide  has  left  high  and  dry  on  the  strand, 
and  whose  signals  of  distress  are  little  heeded 
by  the  rest  of  the  convoy,  which  have  trimmed 
their  sails  more  dexterously  and  sweep  merrily  on 
before  the  breeze.  The  present  work  aiFords 
glimpses,  occasionally,  of  the  author's  happier 
style,  which  has  so  often  fascinated  us  in  his 
earlier  productions.  On  the  whole,  however,  it  will 
add  little  to  his  reputation,  nor,  probably,  much 
subtract  from  it.  When  a  man  has  sent  forth  a 
score  or  two  of  octavos  into  the  world,  and  as  good 
as  some  of  M.  de  Chateaubriand's,  he  can  bear  up 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  259 

under  a  poor  one  now  and  then.  This  is  not  the 
first  indifferent  work  laid  at  his  door,  and,  as  he 
promises  to  keep  the  field  for  some  time  longer, 
it  will  probably  not  be  the  last. 

We  pass  over  the  first  half  of  the  first  volume, 
to  come  to  the  Reformation,  the  point  of  depart- 
ure, as  it  were,  for  modern  civihzation.  Our 
author's  views  in  relation  to  it,  as  we  might  antic- 
ipate, are  not  precisely  those  we  should  entertain. 

"  In  a  rehgious  point  of  view,"  he  says,  "  the 
Reformation  is  leading  insensibly  to  indifference, 
or  the  complete  absence  of  faith:  the  reason  is, 
that  the  independence  of  the  mind  terminates  in 
two  gulfs,  doubt  and  incredulity. 

"  By  a  very  natural  reaction,  the  Reformation, 
at  its  birth,  rekindled  the  djdng  flame  of  Catholic 
fanaticism.  It  may  thus  be  regarded  as  the  indi- 
rect cause  of  the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew, 
the  disturbances  of  the  League,  the  assassination 
of  Henry  the  Fourth,  the  murders  in  Ireland,  and 
of  the  revocation  of  the  Edict  of  Nantes,  and 
the  dragonnades! " — Vol.  i.  p.  193. 

As  to  the  tendency  of  the  Reformation  towards 
doubt  and  incredulity,  we  know  that  free  inquiry, 
continually  presenting  new  views  as  the  sphere 
of  observation  is  enlarged,  may  unsettle  old  prin- 
ciples without  establishing  any  fixed  ones  in  their 
place,  or,  in  other  words,  lead  to  skepticism;  but 
we  doubt  if  this  happens  more  frequently  than 
under  the  opposite  system,  inculcated  by  the 
Romish  Church,  which,  by  precluding  examina- 
tion, excludes  the  only  ground  of  rational  belief. 
At  all  events,  skepticism  in  the  former  case  is 


260  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

much  more  remediable  than  in  the  latter;  since 
the  subject  of  it,  by  pursuing  his  inquiries,  will, 
it  is  to  be  hoped,  as  truth  is  mighty,  arrive  at 
last  at  a  right  result ;  while  the  Romanist,  inhibited 
from  such  inquiry,  has  no  remedy.  The  ingenious 
author  of  *'  Doblado's  Letters  from  Spain  "  has 
painted  in  the  most  affecting  colors  the  state  of 
such  a  mind,  which,  declining  to  take  its  creed  at 
the  bidding  of  another,  is  lost  in  the  labyrinth  of 
doubt  without  a  clue  to  guide  it.  As  to  charging 
on  the  Reformation  the  various  enormities  with 
which  the  above  extract  concludes,  the  idea  is 
certainly  new.  It  is,  in  fact,  making  the  Protes- 
tants guilty  of  their  own  persecution,  and  Henry 
the  Fourth  of  his  own  assassination;  quite  an 
original  view  of  the  subject,  which,  as  far  as  we 
know,  has  hitherto  escaped  the  attention  of 
historians. 

A  few  pages  farther,  and  we  find  the  following 
information  respecting  the  state  of  Cathohcism 
in  our  own  country : 

**  Maryland,  a  Catholic  and  very  populous  state, 
made  common  cause  with  the  others,  and  now 
most  of  the  Western  States  are  Catholic.  The 
progress  of  this  conmiunion  in  the  United  States 
of  America  exceeds  belief.  There  it  has  been 
invigorated  in  its  evangelical  aliment,  popular  hb- 
erty,  while  other  communions  decline  in  profound 
indifference/^ — Vol.  i.  p.  201. 

We  were  not  aware  of  this  state  of  things.  We 
did  indeed  know  that  the  Roman  Church  had  in- 
creased much  of  late  years,  especially  in  the  Valley 
of  the  Mississippi ;  but  so  have  other  communions. 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  261 

as  the  Methodist  and  Baptist,  for  example,  the 
latter  of  which  comprehends  five  times  as  many 
disciples  as  the  Roman  Catholic.  As  to  the  pop- 
ulation of  the  latter  in  the  West,  the  whole  number 
of  Catholics  in  the  Union  does  not  amount,  proba- 
bly, to  three-fourths  of  the  number  of  inhabi- 
tants in  the  single  Western  State  of  Ohio.  The 
truth  is,  that  in  a  country  where  there  is  no  es- 
tablished or  favored  sect,  and  where  the  clergy 
depend  on  voluntary  contribution  for  their  sup- 
port, there  must  be  constant  efforts  at  prosely- 
tism,  and  a  mutation  of  religious  opinion,  accord- 
ing to  the  convictions,  or  fancied  convictions,  of 
the  converts.  What  one  denomination  gains  an- 
other loses,  till,  roused  in  its  turn  by  its  rival,  new 
efforts  are  made  to  retrieve  its  position,  and  the 
equilibrium  is  restored.  In  the  mean  time,  the 
population  of  the  whole  country  goes  forward 
with  giant  strides,  and  each  sect  boasts,  and 
boasts  with  truth,  of  the  hourly  augmentation  of 
its  numbers.  Those  of  the  Roman  Catholics  are 
swelled,  moreover,  by  a  considerable  addition 
from  emigration,  many  of  the  poor  foreigners, 
especially  the  Irish,  being  of  that  persuasion.  But 
this  is  no  ground  of  triumph,  as  it  infers  no  in- 
crease to  the  sum  of  Catholicism,  since  what  is 
thus  gained  in  the  New  World  is  lost  in  the  Old. 

Our  author  pronounces  the  Reformation  hos- 
tile to  the  arts,  poetry,  eloquence,  elegant  litera- 
ture, and  even  the  spirit  of  military  heroism.  But 
hear  his  own  words : 

*'  The  Reformation,  imbued  with  the  spirit  of 
its  founder,  declared  itself  hostile  to  the  arts.    It 


262  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

sacked  tombs,  churches  and  monuments,  and  made 
in  France  and  England  heaps  of  ruins."    .    .    . 

"  The  beautiful  in  literature  will  be  found  to 
exist  in  a  greater  or  lesser  degree,  in  proportion 
as  writers  have  approximated  to  the  genius  of 
the  Roman  Church."  .     .     . 

"If  the  Reformation  restricted  genius  in  poet- 
ry, eloquence,  and  the  arts,  it  also  checked  heroism 
in  war,  for  heroism  is  imagination  in  the  military 
order."— Vol.  i.  pp.  194-207. 

This  is  a  sweeping  denunciation,  and,  as  far  as 
the  arts  of  design  are  intended,  may  probably  be 
defended.  The  Romish  worship,  its  stately  ritual 
and  gorgeous  ceremonies,  the  throng  of  numbers 
assisting,  in  one  form  or  another,  at  the  service,  all 
require  spacious  and  magnificent  edifices,  with 
the  rich  accessories  of  sculpture  and  painting,  and 
music  also,  to  give  full  effect  to  the  spectacle. 
Never  was  there  a  religion  which  addressed  itself 
more  directly  to  the  senses.  And,  fortunately  for 
it,  the  immense  power  and  revenues  of  its  ministers 
enabled  them  to  meet  its  exorbitant  demands. 
On  so  splendid  a  theatre,  and  under  such  patron- 
age, the  arts  were  called  into  life  in  modern 
Europe,  and  most  of  all  in  that  spot  which  rep- 
resented the  capital  of  Christendom.  It  was 
there,  amid  the  pomp  and  luxury  of  religion,  that 
those  beautiful  structures  rose,  with  those  exqui- 
site creations  of  the  chisel  and  the  pencil,  which 
embodied  in  themselves  all  the  elements  of  ideal 
beauty. 

But,  independently  of  these  external  circum- 
stances, the  spirit  of  Catholicism  was  eminently 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  263 

favorable  to  the  artist.  Shut  out  from  free  in- 
quiry— from  the  Scriptures  themselves — and  com- 
pelled to  receive  the  dogmas  of  his  teachers  up- 
on trust,  the  road  to  conviction  lay  less  through 
the  understanding  than  the  heart.  The  heart  was 
to  be  moved,  the  affections  and  sympathies  to  be 
stirred,  as  well  as  the  senses  to  be  dazzled.  This  was 
the  machinery  by  which  alone  could  an  effectual 
devotion  to  the  faith  be  maintained  in  an  ignorant 
people.  It  was  not,  therefore,  Christ  as  a  teacher 
delivering  lessons  of  practical  wisdom  and  moral- 
ity that  was  brought  before  the  eye,  but  Clrrist 
filling  the  offices  of  human  sympathy,  ministering 
to  the  poor  and  sorrowing,  giving  eyes  to  the  blind, 
health  to  the  sick,  and  life  to  the  dead.  It  was 
Christ  suffering  under  persecution,  crowned  w^ith 
thorns,  lacerated  with  stripes,  dying  on  the  cross. 
These  sorrows  and  sufferings  were  understood  by 
the  dullest  soul,  and  told  more  than  a  thousand 
homilies.  So  wdth  the  Virgin.  It  was  not  that 
sainted  mother  of  the  Saviour  whom  Protes- 
tants venerate  but  do  not  worship;  it  was  the 
Mother  of  God,  and  entitled,  like  him,  to  adora- 
tion. It  was  a  woman,  and,  as  such,  the  object  of 
those  romantic  feelings  which  would  profane  the 
service  of  the  Deity,  but  which  are  not  the  less 
touching  as  being  in  accordance  with  human 
sympathies.  The  respect  for  the  Virgin,  indeed, 
partook  of  that  which  a  Catholic  might  feel  for 
his  tutelar  saint  and  his  mistress  combined.  Orders 
of  chivalry  were  dedicated  to  her  service;  and 
her  shrine  was  piled  with  more  offerings  and  fre- 
quented by  more  pilgrimages  than  the  altars  of 


264  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

the  Deity  himself.  Thus,  feehngs  of  love,  adora- 
tion, and  romantic  honor,  strangely  blended, 
threw  a  halo  of  poetic  glory  around  their  object, 
making  it  the  most  exalted  theme  for  the  study 
of  the  artist.  What  wonder  that  this  subject 
should  have  called  forth  the  noblest  inspirations 
of  his  genius?  What  wonder  that  an  artist  like 
Raphael  should  have  found  in  the  simple  por- 
traiture of  a  woman  and  a  child  the  materials  for 
immortality? 

It  was  something  like  a  kindred  state  of  feeling 
which  called  into  being  the  arts  of  ancient  Greece, 
when  her  mythology  was  comparatively  fresh,  and 
faith  was  easy, — when  the  legends  of  the  past, 
famihar  as  Scripture  story  at  a  later  day,  gave  a 
real  existence  to  the  beings  of  fancy,  and  the  art- 
ist, embodying  these  in  forms  of  visible  beauty, 
but  finished  the  work  which  the  poet  had  begun. 

The  Reformation  brought  other  trains  of  ideas, 
and  with  them  other  influences  on  the  arts,  than 
those  of  Catholicism.  Its  first  movements  were 
decidedly  hostile,  since  the  works  of  art  with  which 
the  temples  were  adorned,  being  associated  with 
the  religion  itself,  became  odious  as  the  symbols  of 
idolatry.  But  the  spirit  of  the  Reformation  gave 
thought  a  new  direction  even  in  the  cultivation  of 
art.  It  was  no  longer  sought  to  appeal  to  the 
senses  by  brilliant  display,  or  to  waken  the  sensi- 
bilities by  those  superficial  emotions  which  find 
relief  in  tears.  A  sterner,  deeper  feeling  was 
roused.  The  mind  was  turned  within,  as  it  were, 
to  ponder  on  the  import  of  existence  and  its  future 
destinies;  for  the  chains  were  withdrawn  from 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  265 

the  soul,  and  it  was  permitted  to  wander  at  large 
in  the  regions  of  speculation.  Reason  took  the 
place  of  sentiment, — the  useful  of  the  merely 
ornamental.  Facts  were  substituted  for  forms, 
even  the  ideal  forms  of  beauty.  There  were  to 
be  no  more  Michael  Angelos  and  Raphaels;  no 
glorious  Gothic  temples  which  consumed  genera- 
tions in  their  building.  The  sublime  and  the 
beautiful  were  not  the  first  objects  proposed  by 
the  artist.  He  sought  truth, — fideUty  to  nature. 
He  studied  the  characters  of  his  species  as  well 
as  the  forms  of  imaginary  perfection.  He  por- 
trayed life  as  developed  in  its  thousand  peculiari- 
ties before  his  own  eyes,  and  the  ideal  gave  way 
to  the  natural.  In  this  way,  new  schools  of  paint- 
ing, like  that  of  Hogarth,  for  example,  arose, 
which,  however  inferior  in  those  great  proper- 
ties for  which  we  must  admire  the  masterpieces 
of  Itahan  art,  had  a  significance  and  philosophic 
depth  which  furnished  quite  as  much  matter  for 
study  and  meditation. 

A  similar  tendency  was  observable  in  poetry, 
eloquence,  and  works  of  elegant  literature.  The 
influence  of  the  Reformation  here  was  undoubt- 
edly favorable,  whatever  it  may  have  been  on 
the  arts.  How  could  it  be  otherwise  on  hterature, 
the  written  expression  of  thought,  in  which  no 
grace  of  visible  forms  and  proportions,  no  skill  of 
mechanical  execution,  can  cheat  the  eye  with  the 
vain  semblance  of  genius?  But  it  was  not  until 
the  warm  breath  of  the  Reformation  had  dissolved 
the  icy  fetters  which  had  so  long  held  the  spirit 
of  man  in  bondage  that  the  genial  current  of  the 


266  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

soul  was  permitted  to  flow,  that  the  gates  of 
reason  were  unbarred,  and  the  mind  was  permit- 
ted to  taste  of  the  tree  of  knowledge,  forbidden 
tree  no  longer.  Where  was  the  scope  for  eloquence 
when  thought  was  stifled  in  the  very  sanctuary 
of  the  heart?  for  out  of  the  fulness  of  the  heart 
the  mouth  speaketh. 

There  might,  indeed,  be  an  elaborate  attention 
to  the  outward  forms  of  expression,  an  exquisite 
finish  of  verbal  arrangement,  the  dress  and  garni- 
ture of  thought.  And,  in  fact,  the  Catholic  nations 
have  surpassed  the  Protestant  in  attention  to 
verbal  elegance  and  the  soft  music  of  numbers, 
to  nice  rhetorical  artifice  and  brilliancy  of  compo- 
sition. The  poetry  of  Italy  and  the  prose  of 
France  bear  ample  evidence  how  much  time  and 
talent  have  been  expended  on  this  beauty  of  out- 
ward form,  the  rich  vehicle  of  thought.  But  where 
shall  we  find  the  powerful  reasoning,  various 
knowledge,  and  fearless  energy  of  diction  which 
stamp  the  oratory  of  Protestant  England  and 
America.  In  France,  indeed,  where  prose  has  re- 
ceived a  higher  polish  and  classic  elegance  than  in 
any  other  country,  pulpit  eloquence  has  reached 
an  uncommon  degree  of  excellence;  for,  though 
much  was  excluded,  the  avenues  to  the  heart,  as 
with  the  painter  and  the  sculptor,  were  still  left 
open  to  the  orator.  If  there  has  been  a  deficiency  in 
this  respect  in  the  English  Church,  which  all  will 
not  admit,  it  arises  probably  from  the  fact  that 
the  mind,  unrestricted,  has  been  occupied  with 
reasoning  rather  than  rhetoric,  and  sought  to  clear 
away  old  prejudices  and  establish  new  truths,  in- 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  267 

stead  of  wakening  a  transient  sensibility  or 
dazzling  the  imagination  with  poetic  flights  of 
eloquence.  That  it  is  the  fault  of  the  preacher, 
at  all  events,  and  not  of  Protestantism,  is  shown 
by  a  striking  example  under  our  own  eyes,  that 
of  our  distinguished  countryman  Dr.  Channing, 
whose  style  is  irradiated  with  all  the  splendors 
of  a  glowing  imagination,  showing,  as  powerfully 
as  any  other  example,  probably,  in  English  prose, 
of  what  melody  and  compass  the  language  is  ca- 
pable under  the  touch  of  genius  instinct  with  genu- 
ine enthusiasm.  Not  that  we  would  recommend 
this  style,  grand  and  beautiful  as  it  is,  for  imita- 
tion. We  think  we  have  seen  the  ill  effects  of 
this  already  in  more  than  one  instance.  In  fact, 
no  style  should  be  held  up  as  a  model  for  imita- 
tion. Dr.  Johnson  tells  us,  in  one  of  those  oracu- 
lar passages  somewhat  threadbare  now,  that 
"  whoever  wishes  to  attain  an  English  style,  fa- 
mihar  but  not  coarse,  and  elegant  but  not  ostenta- 
tious, must  give  his  days  and  nights  to  the  volumes 
of  Addison."  With  all  deference  to  the  great 
critic,  who,  by  the  formal  cut  of  the  sentence  just 
quoted,  shows  that  he  did  not  care  to  follow  his 
own  prescription,  we  think  otherwise.  Whoever 
would  write  a  good  English  style,  we  should  say, 
should  acquaint  himself  with  the  mysteries  of  the 
language  as  revealed  in  the  writings  of  the  best 
masters,  but  should  form  his  own  style  on  nobody 
but  himself.  Every  man,  at  least  every  man  with 
a  spark  of  originality  in  his  composition,  has  his 
own  peculiar  way  of  thinking,  and,  to  give  it 
eiFect,  it  must  find  its  way  out  in  its  own  peculiar 


268  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

language.  Indeed,  it  is  impossible  to  separate 
language  from  thought  in  that  delicate  blending 
of  both  which  is  called  style;  at  least,  it  is  impos- 
sible to  produce  the  same  effect  with  the  original 
by  any  copy,  however  literal.  We  may  imitate 
the  structure  of  a  sentence,  but  the  ideas  which 
gave  it  its  peculiar  propriety  we  cannot  imitate. 
The  forms  of  expression  that  suit  one  man's  train 
of  thinking  no  more  suit  another's  than  one  man's 
clothes  will  suit  another.  They  will  be  sure  to  be 
either  too  large  or  too  small,  or,  at  all  events,  not 
to  make  what  gentlemen  of  the  needle  call  a  good 
fit.  If  the  party  chances,  as  is  generally  the  case, 
to  be  rather  under  size,  and  the  model  is  over  size, 
this  will  only  expose  his  own  littleness  the  more. 
There  is  no  case  more  in  point  than  that  afforded 
by  Dr.  Johnson  himself.  His  brilUant  style  has 
been  the  ambition  of  every  school-boy,  and  of 
some  children  of  larger  growth,  since  the  days 
of  the  Rambler.  But  the  nearer  they  come  to  it 
the  worse.  The  beautiful  is  turned  into  the  fan- 
tastic, and  the  subhme  into  the  ridiculous.  The 
most  curious  example  of  this  within  our  recol- 
lection is  the  case  of  Dr.  Symmons,  the  English 
editor  of  Milton's  prose  writings,  and  the  bi- 
ographer of  the  poet.  The  little  doctor  has  main- 
tained throughout  his  ponderous  volume  a  most 
exact  imitation  of  the  great  doctor,  his  sesqui- 
pedalian words,  the  florid  rotundity  of  period. 
With  all  this  cumbrous  load  of  brave  finery  on 
his  back,  swelled  to  twice  its  original  dimensions, 
he  looks  for  all  the  world,  as  he  is,  like  a  mere 
bag  of  wind, — a  scarecrow,  to  admonish  others 
of  the  folly  of  similar  depredations. 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  269 

But  to  return.  The  influence  of  the  Reforma- 
tion on  elegant  literature  was  never  more  visible 
than  in  the  first  great  English  school  of  poets, 
which  came  soon  after  it,  at  the  close  of  the  six- 
teenth century.  The  writers  of  that  period  dis- 
played a  courage,  originality,  and  truth  highly 
characteristic  of  the  new  revolution,  which  had 
been  introduced  by  breaking  down  the  old  land- 
marks of  opinion  and  giving  unbounded  range  to 
speculation  and  inquiry.  The  first  great  poet, 
Spenser,  adopted  the  same  vehicle  of  imagination 
with  the  Italian  bards  of  chivalry,  the  romantic 
epic;  but,  instead  of  making  it,  like  them,  a  mere 
revel  of  fancy,  with  no  further  object  than  to 
delight  the  reader  by  brilliant  combinations,  he 
moralized  his  song,  and  gave  it  a  deeper  and  more 
solemn  import  by  the  mysteries  of  Allegory,  which, 
however  prejudicial  to  its  eiFect  as  a  work  of  art, 
showed  a  mind  too  intent  on  serious  thoughts  and 
inquiries  itself  to  be  content  with  the  dazzling  but 
impotent  coruscations  of  genius,  that  serve  no 
other  end  than  that  of  amusement. 

In  the  same  manner,  Shakspeare  and  the  other 
dramatic  writers  of  the  time,  instead  of  adopting 
the  formal  rules  recognized  afterwards  by  the 
French  writers,  their  long  rhetorical  flourishes, 
their  exaggerated  models  of  character,  and  ideal 
forms,  went  freely  and  fearlessly  into  all  the 
varieties  of  human  nature,  the  secret  depths  of  the 
soul,  touching  on  all  the  diversified  interests  of 
humanity, — for  he  might  touch  on  all  without  fear 
of  persecution, — and  thus  making  his  productions 
a  storehouse  of  philosophy,  of  lessons  of  practical 


270  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

wisdom,  deep,  yet  so  clear  that  he  who  runs  may- 
read. 

But  the  spirit  of  the  Reformation  did  not  de- 
scend in  all  its  fulness  on  the  Muse  till  the  appear- 
ance of  Milton.  That  great  poet  was  in  heart 
as  thoroughly  a  Reformer,  and  in  doctrine  much 
more  thoroughly  so  than  Luther  himself.  Indig- 
nant at  every  effort  to  crush  the  spirit,  and  to 
cheat  it,  in  his  own  words,  "  of  that  liberty  which 
rarefies  and  enlightens  it  like  the  influence  of 
heaven,"  he  proclaimed  the  rights  of  man  as  a 
rational,  immortal  being,  undismayed  by  menace 
and  obloquy,  amid  a  generation  of  servile  and  un- 
principled sycophants.  The  blindness  which  ex- 
cluded him  from  the  things  of  earth  opened  to 
him  more  glorious  and  spiritualized  conceptions  of 
heaven,  and  aided  him  in  exhibiting  the  full  influ- 
ence of  those  sublime  truths  which  the  privilege 
of  free  inquiry  in  religious  matters  had  poured 
upon  the  mind.  His  Muse  was  as  eminently  the 
child  of  Protestantism  as  that  of  Dante,  who  re- 
sembled him  in  so  many  traits  of  character,  was  of 
Catholicism.  The  latter  poet,  coming  first  among 
the  moderns,  after  the  fountains  of  the  great  deep 
which  had  so  long  overwhelmed  the  world  were 
broken  up,  displayed  in  his  wonderful  composition 
all  the  elements  of  modern  institutions  as  distin- 
guished from  those  of  antiquity.  He  first  showed 
the  full  and  peculiar  influence  of  Christianity 
on  literature,  but  it  was  Christianity  under  the 
form  of  Catholicism.  His  subject,  spiritual  in 
its  design,  like  Milton's,  was  sustained  by  all  the 
auxiliaries  of  a  visible  and  material  existence.    His 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  STl 

passage  through  the  infernal  abyss  is  a  series 
of  tragic  pictures  of  human  woe,  suggesting 
greater  refinements  of  cruelty  than  were  ever  im- 
agined by  a  heathen  poet.  Amid  all  the  various 
forms  of  mortal  anguish,  we  look  in  vain  for  the 
mind  as  a  means  of  torture.  In  like  manner,  in 
ascending  the  scale  of  celestial  being,  we  pass 
through  a  succession  of  brilliant  fetes,  made  up  of 
light,  music,  and  motion,  increasing  in  splendor 
and  velocity,  till  all  are  lost  and  confounded  in 
the  glories  of  the  Deity.  Even  the  pencil  of  the 
great  master,  dipped  in  these  gorgeous  tints  of 
imagination,  does  not  shrink  from  the  attempt 
to  portray  the  outlines  of  Deity  itself.  In  this 
he  aspired  to  what  many  of  his  countrymen  in 
the  sister  arts  of  design  have  since  attempted,  and, 
like  him,  have  failed;  for  who  can  hope  to  give 
form  to  the  Infinite?  In  the  same  false  style 
Dante  personifies  the  spirits  of  evil,  including 
Satan  himself.  Much  was  doubtless  owing  to  the 
age,  though  much,  also,  must  be  referred  to  the 
genius  of  Catholicism,  which,  appealing  to  the 
senses,  has  a  tendency  to  materialize  the  spiritual, 
as  Protestantism,  with  deeper  reflection,  aims  to 
spiritualize  the  material.  Thus  Milton,  in  tread- 
ing similar  ground,  borrows  his  illustrations  from 
intellectual  sources,  conveys  the  image  of  the  Al- 
mighty by  his  attributes,  and,  in  the  frequent  por- 
traiture which  he  introduces  of  Satan,  suggests 
only  vague  conceptions  of  form,  the  faint  out- 
lines of  matter,  as  it  were,  stretching  vast  over 
many  a  rood,  but  towering  sublime  by  the  uncon- 
querable energy  of  will, — the  fit  representative 


272  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

of  the  principle  of  evil.  Indeed,  Milton  has 
scarcely  any  thing  of  what  may  be  called  scenic 
decorations  to  produce  a  certain  stage  effect.  His 
actors  are  few,  and  his  action  nothing.  It  is  only 
by  their  intellectual  and  moral  relations — by  giv- 
ing full  scope  to  the 

"  Cherub  Contemplation — 
He  that  soars  on  golden  wing, 
Guiding  the  fiery-wheeled  throne," 

that  he  has  prepared  for  us  visions  of  celestial 
beauty  and  grandeur  which  never  fade  from  our 
souls. 

In  the  dialogue  with  which  the  two  poets  have 
seasoned  their  poems,  we  see  the  action  of  the 
opposite  influences  we  have  described.  Both  give 
vent  to  metaphysical  disquisition,  of  learned  sound, 
and  much  greater  length  than  the  reader  would 
desire;  but  in  Milton  it  is  the  free  discussion  of 
a  mind  trained  to  wrestle  boldly  on  abstrusest 
points  of  metaphysical  theology,  while  Dante  fol- 
lows in  the  same  old  barren  footsteps  which  had 
been  trodden  by  the  schoolmen.  Both  writers 
were  singularly  bold  and  independent.  Dante 
asserted  that  liberty  which  should  belong  to  the 
citizen  of  every  free  state, — that  civil  liberty  which 
had  been  sacrificed  in  his  own  country  by  the 
spirit  of  faction.  But  Milton  claimed  a  higher 
freedom, — a  freedom  of  thinking  and  of  giving 
utterance  to  thought,  uncontrolled  by  human 
authority.  He  had  fallen  on  evil  times;  but  he 
had  a  generous  confidence  that  his  voice  would 
reach  to  posterity  and  would  be  a  guide  and  a 
light  to  the  coming  generations.    And  truly  has  it 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  273 

proved  so ;  for  in  his  writings  we  find  the  germs  of 
many  of  the  boasted  discoveries  of  our  own  day 
in  government  and  education,  so  that  he  may 
be  fairly  considered  as  the  morning  star  of  that 
higher  civihzation  which  distinguishes  our  happier 
era. 

Milton's  poetical  writings  do  not  seem,  however, 
to  have  been  held  in  that  neglect  by  his  contempo- 
raries which  is  commonly  supposed.  He  had  at- 
tracted too  much  attention  as  a  political  contro- 
versialist, was  too  much  feared  for  his  talents,  as 
well  as  hated  for  his  principles,  to  allow  any  thing 
which  fell  from  his  pen  to  pass  unnoticed.  Al- 
though the  profits  went  to  others,  he  lived  to  see 
a  second  edition  of  "  Paradise  Lost,"  and  this 
was  more  than  was  to  have  been  fairly  anticipated 
of  a  composition  of  this  nature,  however  well  exe- 
cuted, falling  on  such  times.  Indeed,  its  sale  was 
no  evidence  that  its  merits  were  comprehended, 
and  may  be  referred  to  the  general  reputation  of 
its  author;  for  we  find  so  accomplished  a  critic  as 
Sir  William  Temple,  some  years  later,  omitting 
the  name  of  Milton  in  his  roll  of  writers  who  have 
done  honor  to  modern  literature,  a  circumstance 
which  may  perhaps  be  imputed  to  that  reverence 
for  the  ancients  which  blinded  Sir  William  to  the 
merits  of  their  successors.  How  could  Milton 
be  understood  in  his  own  generation,  in  the  grovel- 
ling, sensual  court  of  Charles  the  Second?  How 
could  the  dull  eyes  so  long  fastened  on  the  earth 
endure  the  blaze  of  his  inspired  genius  ?  It  was  not 
till  time  had  removed  him  to  a  distance  that  he 
could  be  calmly  gazed  on  and  his  merits  fairly 

Vol.  I.— 18 


274  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

contemplated.  Addison,  as  is  well  known,  was 
the  first  to  bring  them  into  popular  view,  by  a 
beautiful  specimen  of  criticism  that  has  perma- 
nently connected  his  name  with  that  of  his  illus- 
trious subject.  More  than  half  a  century  later, 
another  great  name  in  English  criticism,  perhaps 
the  greatest  in  general  reputation,  Johnson,  passed 
sentence  of  a  very  diiFerent  kind  on  the  preten- 
tions of  the  poet.  A  production  more  discreditable 
to  the  author  is  not  to  be  found  in  the  whole  of  his 
voluminous  works, — equally  discreditable  whether 
regarded  in  an  historical  light  or  as  a  sample 
of  Hterary  criticism.  What  shall  we  say  of  the 
biographer  who,  in  allusion  to  that  affecting  pas- 
sage where  the  blind  old  bard  talks  of  himself 
as  "in  darkness,  and  with  dangers  compass'd 
round,"  can  coolly  remark  that  "  this  darkness,  had 
his  eyes  been  better  employed,  might  undoubtedly 
have  deserved  compassion"  ?  Or  what  of  the 
critic  who  can  say  of  the  most  exquisite  effusion 
of  Doric  minstrelsy  that  our  language  boasts, 
*'  Surely  no  man  could  have  fancied  that  he  read 
'  Lycidas '  with  pleasure,  had  he  not  known  the 
author;  "  and  of  "  Paradise  Lost  "  itself,  that  "  its 
perusal  is  a  duty  rather  than  a  pleasure"  ?  Could  a 
more  exact  measure  be  afforded  than  by  this  single 
line  of  the  poetic  sensibility  of  the  critic,  and  his 
unsuitableness  for  the  office  he  had  here  assumed  ? 
His  "  Life  of  Milton  "  is  a  humiliating  testimony 
of  the  power  of  political  and  religious  preju- 
dices to  warp  a  great  and  good  mind  from  the 
standard  of  truth,  in  the  estimation  not  merely 
of  contemporary  excellence,  but  of  the  great  of 


POETRAIT  OF  CHATEAUBRIAND. 


.anAiaauAaTAHO  ho  TiAHTaoi 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  275 

other  years,  over  whose  frailties  Time  might  be 
supposed  to  have  drawn  his  friendly  mantle. 

Another  half -century  has  elapsed,  and  ample 
justice  has  been  rendered  to  the  fame  of  the  poet 
by  two  elaborate  criticisms:  the  one  in  the  "  Edin- 
burgh Review,"  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Macaulay; 
the  other  by  Dr.  Channing,  in  the  "  Christian  Ex- 
aminer," since  republished  in  his  own  works;  re- 
markable performances,  each  in  the  manner  highly 
characteristic  of  its  author,  and  which  have  con- 
tributed, doubtless,  to  draw  attention  to  the  prose 
compositions  of  their  subject,  as  the  criticism  of 
Addison  did  to  his  poetry.  There  is  something 
gratifying  in  the  circumstance  that  this  great  ad- 
vocate of  intellectual  liberty  should  have  found 
his  most  able  and  eloquent  expositor  among  us, 
whose  position  qualifies  us  in  a  peculiar  manner 
for  profiting  by  the  rich  legacy  of  his  genius.  It 
was  but  discharging  a  debt  of  gratitude. 

Chateaubriand  has  much  to  say  about  Milton, 
for  whose  writings,  both  prose  and  poetry,  not- 
withstanding the  difference  of  their  sentiments 
on  almost  all  points  of  politics  and  religion,  he 
appears  to  entertain  the  most  sincere  reverence. 
His  criticisms  are  liberal  and  just;  they  show  a 
thorough  study  of  his  author;  but  neither  the 
historical  facts  nor  the  reflections  will  suggest 
much  that  is  new  on  a  subject  now  become  trite 
to  the  English  reader. 

We  may  pass  over  a  good  deal  of  skimble-skam- 
ble stuff  about  men  and  things,  which  our  author 
may  have  cut  out  of  his  commonplace-book,  to 
come  to  his  remarks  on  Sir  Walter  Scott,  whom 
he  does  not  rate  so  highly  as  most  critics. 


216  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

"  The  illustrious  painter  of  Scotland,"  he  says, 
"  seems  to  me  to  have  created  a  false  class ;  he  has, 
in  my  opinion,  confounded  history  and  romance. 
The  novelist  has  set  about  writing  historical  ro- 
mances, and  the  historian  romantic  histories." — 
Vol.  ii.  p.  306 

We  should  have  said,  on  the  contrary,  that  he 
had  improved  the  character  of  both;  that  he  had 
given  new  value  to  romance  by  building  it  on 
history,  and  new  charms  to  history  by  embellishing 
it  with  the  graces  of  romance. 

To  be  more  explicit.  The  principal  historical 
work  of  Scott  is  the  "  Life  of  Napoleon."  It 
has,  unquestionably,  many  of  the  faults  incident 
to  a  dashing  style  of  composition,  which  precluded 
the  possibility  of  compression  and  arrangement 
in  the  best  form  of  which  the  subject  was  capa- 
ble. This,  in  the  end,  may  be  fatal  to  the  per- 
petuity of  the  work,  for  posterity  will  be  much 
less  patient  than  our  own  age.  He  will  have  a 
much  heavier  load  to  carry,  inasmuch  as  he  is 
to  bear  up  under  all  of  his  own  time,  and  ours 
too.  It  is  very  certain,  then,  some  must  go  by  the 
board;  and  nine  sturdy  volumes,  which  is  the 
amount  of  Sir  Walter's  English  edition,  will  be 
somewhat  alarming.  Had  he  confined  himself 
to  half  the  quantity,  there  would  have  been  no 
ground  for  distrust.  Every  day,  nay,  hour,  we 
see,  ay,  and  feel,  the  ill  effects  of  this  rapid  style 
of  composition,  so  usual  with  the  best  writers  of 
our  day.  The  immediate  profits  which  such  writers 
are  pretty  sure  to  get,  notwithstanding  the  ex- 
ample of  M.  Chateaubriand,  operate  like  the  dress- 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  m 

ing  improvidently  laid  on  a  naturally  good  soil, 
forcing  out  noxious  weeds  in  such  luxuriance  as 
to  check,  if  not  absolutely  to  kill,  the  more  health- 
ful vegetation.  Quantities  of  trivial  detail  find 
their  way  into  the  page,  mixed  up  with  graver 
matters.  Instead  of  that  skilful  preparation  by 
which  all  the  avenues  verge  at  last  to  one  point,  so 
as  to  leave  a  distinct  impression — an  impression  of 
unity — on  the  reader,  he  is  hurried  along  zigzag,  in 
a  thousand  directions,  or  round  and  round,  but 
never,  in  the  cant  of  the  times,  "  going  ahead  "  an 
inch.  He  leaves  off  pretty  much  where  he  set  out, 
except  that  his  memory  may  be  tolerably  well 
stuffed  with  facts,  which,  from  want  of  some 
principle  of  cohesion,  will  soon  drop  out  of  it.  He 
will  find  himself  like  a  traveller  who  has  been  rid- 
ing through  a  fine  country,  it  may  be,  by  moon- 
light, getting  glimpses  of  every  thing,  but  no  com- 
plete well-illuminated  view  of  the  whole  ("  quale 
per  incertam  lunam/^  etc.),  or,  rather,  like  the 
same  traveller  whizzing  along  in  a  locomotive  so 
rapidly  as  to  get  even  a  glimpse  fairly  of  nothing, 
instead  of  making  his  tour  in  such  a  manner  as 
would  enable  him  to  pause  at  what  was  worth  his 
attention,  to  pass  by  night  over  the  barren  and  un- 
interesting, and  occasionally  to  rise  to  such  ele- 
vations as  would  afford  the  best  points  of  view 
for  commanding  the  various  prospect. 

The  romance-writer  labors  under  no  such  em- 
barrassments. He  may,  undoubtedly,  precipitate 
his  work  so  that  it  may  lack  proportion,  and  the 
nice  arrangement  required  by  the  rules  which,  fifty 
years  ago,  would  have  condemned  it  as  a  work  of 


278  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

art.  But  the  criticism  of  the  present  day  is  not 
so  squeamish,  or,  to  say  truth,  pedantic.  It  is 
enough  for  the  writer  of  fiction  if  he  give  pleasure ; 
and  this,  everybody  knows,  is  not  effected  by 
the  strict  observance  of  artificial  rules.  It  is  of 
little  consequence  how  the  plot  is  entangled,  or 
whether  it  be  untied  or  cut  in  order  to  extricate 
the  dramatis  personce.  At  least  it  is  of  little  con- 
sequence compared  with  the  true  delineation  of 
character.  The  story  is  serviceable  only  as  it  af- 
fords a  means  for  the  display  of  this;  and  if  the 
novelist  but  keep  up  the  interest  of  his  story  and 
the  truth  of  his  characters,  we  easily  forgive  any 
dislocations  which  his  light  vehicle  may  encounter 
from  too  heedless  motion.  Indeed,  rapidity  of 
motion  may  in  some  sort  favor  him,  keeping  up 
the  glow  of  his  invention,  and  striking  out,  as  he 
dashes  along,  sparks  of  wit  and  fancy,  that  give 
a  brilliant  illumination  to  his  track.  But  in  his- 
tory there  must  be  another  kind  of  process, — a  pro- 
cess at  once  slow  and  laborious.  Old  parchments 
are  to  be  ransacked,  charters  and  musty  records 
to  be  deciphered,  and  stupid,  worm-eaten  chron- 
iclers, who  had  much  more  of  passion,  frequently, 
to  blind,  than  good  sense  to  guide  them,  must  be 
sifted  and  compared.  In  short,  a  sort  of  Medea- 
like process  is  to  be  gone  through,  and  many  an 
old  bone  is  to  be  boiled  over  in  the  caldron  before  it 
can  come  out  again  clothed  in  the  elements  of  beau- 
ty. The  dreams  of  the  novelist, — ^the  poet  of 
prose, — on  the  other  hand,  are  beyond  the  reach 
of  art,  and  the  magician  calls  up  the  most  brilliant 
forms  of  fancy  by  a  single  stroke  of  his  wand. 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  279 

Scott,  in  his  History,  was  relieved  in  some  de- 
gree from  this  necessity  of  studious  research  by 
borrowing  his  theme  from  contemporary  events. 
It  was  his  duty,  indeed,  to  examine  evidence  care- 
fully and  sift  out  contradictions  and  errors.  This 
demanded  shrewdness  and  caution,  but  not  much 
previous  preparation  and  study.  It  demanded, 
above  all,  candor;  for  it  was  his  business  not  to 
make  out  a  case  for  the  client,  but  to  weigh  both 
sides,  like  an  impartial  judge,  before  summing 
up  the  evidence  and  delivering  his  conscientious 
opinion.  We  believe  there  was  no  good  ground 
for  charging  Scott  with  having  swerved  from 
this  part  of  his  duty.  Those  who  expected  to  see 
him  deify  his  hero  and  raise  altars  to  his  memory 
were  disappointed;  and  so  were  those,  also,  who 
demanded  that  the  tail  and  cloven  hoof  should 
be  made  to  peep  out  beneath  the  imperial  robe. 
But  this  proves  his  impartiality.  It  would  be  un- 
fair, however,  to  require  the  degree  of  impartiality 
which  is  to  be  expected  from  one  removed  to  a 
distance  from  the  theatre  of  strife,  from  those 
national  interests  and  feelings  which  are  so  often 
the  disturbing  causes  of  historic  fairness.  An 
American,  no  doubt,  would  have  been  in  this  re- 
spect in  a  more  favorable  point  of  view  for  con- 
templating the  European  drama.  The  ocean, 
stretched  between  us  and  the  Old  World,  has  the 
effect  of  time,  and  extinguishes,  or,  at  least,  cools, 
the  hot  and  angry  feehngs  which  find  their  way 
into  every  man's  bosom  within  the  atmosphere  of 
the  contest.  Scott  was  a  Briton,  with  all  the  pe- 
culiarities of  one, — at  least  of  a  North  Briton; 


280  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

and  the  future  historian  who  gathers  materials 
from  his  labors  will  throw  these  national  pre- 
dilections into  the  scale  in  determining  the  proba- 
ble accuracy  of  his  statements.  These  are  not 
greater  than  might  occur  to  any  man,  and  allow- 
ance will  always  be  made  for  them,  on  the  ground 
of  a  general  presumption;  so  that  a  greater  de- 
gree of  impartiality,  by  leading  to  false  conclu- 
sions in  this  respect,  would  scarcely  have  served 
the  cause  of  truth  better  with  posterity.  An  in- 
dividual who  felt  his  reputation  compromised  may 
have  joined  issue  on  this  or  that  charge  of  inac- 
curacy; but  no  such  charge  has  come  from  any 
of  the  leading  journals  in  the  country,  which 
would  not  have  been  slow  to  expose  it,  and  which 
would  not,  considering  the  great  popularity  and, 
consequently,  influence  of  the  work,  have  omitted, 
as  they  did,  to  notice  it  at  all,  had  it  afforded  any 
obvious  ground  of  exception  on  this  score.  Where, 
then,  is  the  romance  which  our  author  accuses 
Sir  Walter  of  blending  with  history? 

Scott  was,  in  truth,  master  of  the  picturesque. 
He  understood,  better  than  any  historian  since 
the  time  of  Livy,  how  to  dispose  his  lights  and 
shades  so  as  to  produce  the  most  striking  result. 
This  property  of  romance  he  had  a  right  to  borrow. 
This  talent  is  particularly  observable  in  the  ani- 
mated parts  of  his  story, — in  his  battles,  for  ex- 
ample. No  man  ever  painted  those  terrible 
scenes  with  greater  effect.  He  had  a  natural  relish 
for  gunpowder;  and  his  mettle  roused,  like  that 
of  a  war-horse,  at  the  sound  of  the  trumpet.  His 
acquaintance  with  military  science  enabled  him 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  281 

to  employ  a  technical  phraseology,  just  technical 
enough  to  give  a  knowing  air  to  his  descriptions, 
without  embarrassing  the  reader  by  a  pedantic 
display  of  unintelligible  jargon.  This  is  a  talent 
rare  in  a  civilian.  Nothing  can  be  finer  than 
many  of  his  battle-pieces  in  his  "  Life  of  Bona- 
parte," unless,  indeed,  we  except  one  or  two  in  his 
"  History  of  Scotland,"  as  the  fight  of  Bannock- 
burn,  for  example,  in  which  Burns's  "  Scots,  wha 
hae"  seems  to  breathe  in  every  line. 

It  is  when  treading  on  Scottish  ground  that  he 
seems  to  feel  all  his  strength.  "  I  seem  always  to 
step  more  firmly,"  he  said  to  some  one,  "  when  on 
my  own  native  heather."  His  mind  was  steeped 
in  Scottish  lore,  and  his  bosom  warmed  with  a 
sympathetic  glow  for  the  age  of  chivalry.  Ac- 
cordingly, his  dehneations  of  this  period,  whether 
in  history  or  romance,  are  unrivalled;  as  supe- 
rior in  effect  to  those  of  most  compilers  as  the 
richly-stained  glass  of  the  feudal  ages  is  superior 
in  beauty  and  brilliancy  of  tints  to  a  modern  imi- 
tation. If  this  be  borrowing  something  from  ro- 
mance, it  is,  we  repeat,  no  more  than  what  is  law- 
ful for  the  historian,  and  explains  the  meaning  of 
our  assertion  that  he  has  improved  history  by  the 
embellishments  of  fiction. 

Yet,  after  all,  how  wide  the  difference  between 
the  province  of  history  and  of  romance,  under 
Scott's  own  hands,  may  be  shown  by  comparing 
his  account  of  Mary's  reign  in  his  "  History  of 
Scotland "  with  the  same  period  in  the  novel 
of  "  The  Abbot."  The  historian  must  keep  the 
beaten  track  of  events.    The  novelist  launches  into 


282  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

the  illimitable  regions  of  fiction,  provided  only  that 
his  historic  portraits  be  true  to  their  originals.  By- 
due  attention  to  this,  fiction  is  made  to  minister 
to  history,  and  may,  in  point  of  fact,  contain  as 
much  real  truth, — truth  of  character,  though  not 
of  situation.  "  The  difference  between  the  histo- 
rian and  me,"  says  Fielding,  "  is  that  with  him 
every  thing  is  false  but  the  names  and  dates,  while 
with  me  nothing  is  false  but  these."  There  is,  at 
least,  as  much  truth  in  this  as  in  most  witticisms. 

It  is  the  great  glory  of  Scott  that,  by  nice  at- 
tention to  costume  and  character  in  his  novels,  he 
has  raised  them  to  historic  importance  without 
impairing  their  interest  as  works  of  art.  Who 
now  would  imagine  that  he  could  form  a  satis- 
factory notion  of  the  golden  days  of  Queen  Bess 
that  had  not  read  "  Kenilworth"  ?  or  of  Richard 
Coeur-de-Lion  and  his  brave  paladins  that  had 
not  read  "  Ivanhoe"  ?  Why,  then,  it  has  been 
said,  not  at  once  incorporate  into  regular  history 
all  these  traits  which  give  such  historical  value 
to  the  novel?  Because  in  this  way  the  strict  truth 
which  history  requires  would  be  violated.  This 
cannot  be.  The  fact  is.  History  and  Romance 
are  too  near  akin  ever  to  be  lawfully  united.  By 
mingling  them  together,  a  confusion  is  produced, 
like  the  mingling  of  day  and  night,  mystifying 
and  distorting  every  feature  of  the  landscape.  It 
is  enough  for  the  novelist  if  he  be  true  to  the 
spirit ;  the  historian  must  be  true  also  to  the  letter. 
He  cannot  coin  pertinent  remarks  and  anecdotes 
to  illustrate  the  characters  of  his  drama.  He  can- 
not even  provide  them  with  suitable  costumes.    He 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  283 

must  take  just  what  Father  Time  has  given  him, 
just  what  he  finds  in  the  records  of  the  age,  set- 
ting down  neither  more  nor  less.  Now,  the  dull 
chroniclers  of  the  old  time  rarely  thought  of 
putting  down  the  smart  sayings  of  the  great  peo- 
ple they  biographize,  still  less  of  entering  into 
minute  circumstances  of  personal  interest.  These 
were  too  familiar  to  contemporaries  to  require  it, 
and  therefore  they  waste  their  breath  on  more 
solemn  matters  of  state,  all  important  in  their 
generation,  but  not  worth  a  rush  in  the  present. 
What  would  the  historian  not  give  could  he  borrow 
those  fine  touches  of  nature  with  which  the  novel- 
ist illustrates  the  characters  of  his  actors, — natu- 
ral touches,  indeed,  but,  in  truth,  just  as  artificial 
as  any  other  part, — all  coined  in  the  imagina- 
tion of  the  writer !  There  is  the  same  difference  be- 
tween his  occupation  and  that  of  the  novelist 
that  there  is  between  the  historical  and  the  portrait 
painter.  The  former  necessarily  takes  some  great 
subject,  with  great  personages,  all  strutting  about 
in  gorgeous  state  attire  and  air  of  solemn  tragedy, 
while  his  brother  artist  insinuates  himself  into  the 
family  groups,  and  picks  out  natural,  familiar 
scenes  and  faces,  laughing  or  weeping,  but  in 
the  charming  undress  of  nature.  What  wonder 
that  novel-reading  should  be  so  much  more  amus- 
ing than  history? 

But  we  have  already  trespassed  too  freely  on 
the  patience  of  our  readers,  who  will  think  the 
rambling  spirit  of  our  author  contagious.  Before 
dismissing  him,  however,  we  will  give  a  taste  of 
his  quality  by  one  or  two  extracts,  not  very  ger- 


284  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

mane  to  English  literature,  but  about  as  much 
so  as  a  great  part  of  the  work.  The  first  is  a 
poetical  sally  on  Bonaparte's  burial-place,  quite 
in  Monsieur  Chateaubriand's  peculiar  vein: 

"  The  solitude  of  Napoleon,  in  his  exile  and  his 
tomb,  has  thrown  another  kind  of  spell  over  a 
brilliant  memory.  Alexander  did  not  die  in  sight 
of  Greece;  he  disappeared  amid  the  pomp  of  dis- 
tant Babylon.  Bonaparte  did  not  close  his  eyes 
in  the  presence  of  France;  he  passed  away  in  the 
gorgeous  horizon  of  the  torrid  zone.  The  man 
who  had  shown  himself  in  such  powerful  reality 
vanished  like  a  dream;  his  life,  which  belonged 
to  history,  co-operated  in  the  poetry  of  his  death. 
He  now  sleeps  forever,  like  a  hermit  or  a  paria, 
beneath  a  willow,  in  a  narrow  valley,  surrounded 
by  steep  rocks,  at  the  extremity  of  a  lonely  path. 
The  depth  of  the  silence  which  presses  upon  him 
can  only  be  compared  to  the  vastness  of  that  tu- 
mult which  had  surrounded  him.  Nations  are  ab- 
sent; their  throng  has  retired.  The  bird  of  the 
tropics,  harnessed  to  the  car  of  the  sun,  as  Buf- 
f  on  magnificently  expresses  it,  speeding  his  flight 
downward  from  the  planet  of  light,  rests  alone,  for 
a  moment,  over  the  ashes  the  weight  of  which  has 
shaken  the  equilibrium  of  the  globe. 

"  Bonaparte  crossed  the  ocean  to  repair  to  his 
final  exile,  regardless  of  that  beautiful  sky 
which  delighted  Columbus,  Vasco  de  Gama  and 
Camoens.  Stretched  upon  the  ship's  stern,  he  per- 
ceived not  that  unknown  constellations  were  spar- 
kling over  his  head.  His  powerful  glance,  for  the 
first  time,  encountered  their  rays.    What  to  him 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  285 

were  stars  which  he  had  never  seen  from  his 
bivouacs  and  which  had  never  shone  over  his  em- 
pire? Nevertheless,  not  one  of  them  has  failed  to 
fulfil  its  destiny :  one  half  of  the  firmament  spread 
its  light  over  his  cradle,  the  other  half  was  reserved 
to  illuminate  his  tomb." — Vol.  ii.  pp.  185,  186. 

The  next  extract  relates  to  the  British  statesman, 
William  Pitt: 

"  Pitt,  tall  and  slender,  had  an  air  at  once 
melancholy  and  sarcastic.  His  delivery  was  cold, 
his  intonation  monotonous,  his  action  scarcely  per- 
ceptible. At  the  same  time,  the  lucidness  and  the 
fluency  of  his  thoughts,  the  logic  of  his  arguments, 
suddenly  irradiated  with  flashes  of  eloquence, 
rendered  his  talents  something  above  the  ordinary 
hne. 

"  I  frequently  saw  Pitt  walking  across  St. 
James's  Park  from  his  own  house  to  the  palace. 
On  his  part,  George  the  Third  arrived  from  Wind- 
sor, after  drinking  beer  out  of  a  pewter  pot  with 
the  farmers  of  the  neighborhood ;  he  drove  through 
the  mean  courts  of  his  mean  habitation  in  a  gray 
chariot,  followed  by  a  few  of  the  horse-guards. 
This  was  the  master  of  the  kings  of  Europe,  as 
five  or  six  merchants  of  the  city  are  the  masters 
of  India.  Pitt,  dressed  in  black,  with  a  steel- 
hilted  sword  by  his  side,  and  his  hat  under  his 
arm,  ascended,  taking  two  or  three  steps  at  a 
time.  In  his  passage  he  only  met  with  three  or 
four  emigrants,  who  had  nothing  to  do.  Casting 
on  us  a  disdainful  look,  he  turned  up  his  nose  and 
his  pale  face,  and  passed  on. 

"  At  home,  this  great  financier  kept  no  sort  of 


286  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

order;  he  had  no  regular  hours  for  his  meals  or 
for  sleep.  Over  head  and  ears  in  debt,  he  paid 
nobody,  and  never  could  take  the  trouble  to  cast 
up  a  bill.  A  valet  de  chamhre  managed  his  house. 
Ill  dressed,  without  pleasure,  without  passion, 
greedy  of  power,  he  despised  honors,  and  would 
not  be  any  thing  more  than  William  Pitt. 

"In  the  month  of  June,  1822,  Lord  Liverpool 
took  me  to  dine  at  his  country-house.  As  we 
crossed  Putney  Heath,  he  showed  me  the  small 
house  where  the  son  of  Lord  Chatham,  the  states- 
man who  had  had  Europe  in  his  pay  and  dis- 
tributed with  his  own  hand  all  the  treasures  of  the 
world,  died  in  poverty." — Vol.  ii.  pp.  277,  278. 

The  following  extracts  show  the  changes  that 
have  taken  place  in  English  manners  and  society, 
and  may  afford  the  "  whiskered  pandour  "  of  our 
own  day  an  opportunity  of  contrasting  his  style 
of  dandyism  with  that  of  the  preceding  genera- 
tion: 

*'  Separated  from  the  Continent  by  a  long  war, 
the  English  retained  their  manners  and  their  na- 
tional character  till  the  end  of  the  last  century. 
All  was  not  yet  machine  in  the  working  classes, 
folly  in  the  upper  classes.  On  the  same  pavements 
where  you  now  meet  squalid  figures  and  men  in 
frock-coats,  you  were  passed  by  young  girls  with 
white  tippets,  straw  hats  tied  under  the  chin  with 
a  riband,  with  a  basket  on  the  arm,  in  which  was 
fruit  or  a  book :  all  kept  their  eyes  cast  down ;  all 
blushed  when  one  looked  at  them.  Frock-coats, 
without  any  other,  were  so  unusual  in  London  in 
1793  that  a  woman,  deploring  with  tears  the  death 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  287 

of  Louis  the  Sixteenth,  said  to  me,  '  But,  my  dear 
sir,  is  it  true  that  the  poor  king  was  dressed  in  a 
frock-coat  when  they  cut  off  his  head? ' 

"  The  gentlemen-farmers  had  not  yet  sold 
their  patrimony  to  take  up  their  residence  in  Lon- 
don ;  they  still  formed,  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
that  independent  fraction  which,  transferring  their 
support  from  the  opposition  to  the  ministerial  side, 
upheld  the  ideas  of  order  and  propriety.  They 
hunted  the  fox  and  shot  pheasants  in  autumn,  ate 
fat  goose  at  Michaelmas,  greeted  the  sirloin  with 
shouts  of  '  Koast  beef  forever ! '  complained  of 
the  present,  extolled  the  past,  cursed  Pitt  and 
the  war,  which  doubled  the  price  of  port  wine,  and 
went  to  bed  drunk,  to  begin  the  same  life  again  on 
the  following  day.  They  felt  quite  sure  that  the 
glory  of  Great  Britain  would  not  perish  so  long 
as  '  God  save  the  King '  was  sung,  the  rotten 
boroughs  maintained,  the  game-laws  enforced, 
and  hares  and  partridges  could  be  sold  by  stealth 
at  market,  under  the  names  of  lions  and  ostriches." 
—Vol.  ii.  pp.  279,  280. 

*'  In  1822,  at  the  time  of  my  embassy  to  London, 
the  fashionable  was  expected  to  exhibit,  at  the 
first  glance,  an  unhappy  and  unhealthy  man;  to 
have  an  air  of  negligence  about  his  person,  long 
nails,  a  beard  neither  entire  nor  shaven,  but  as  if 
grown  for  a  moment  unawares,  and  forgotten 
during  the  preoccupations  of  wretchedness;  hair 
in  disorder;  a  sublime,  mild,  wicked  eye;  lips  com- 
pressed in  disdain  of  human  nature;  a  Byronian 
heart,  overwhelmed  with  weariness  and  disgust  of 
life. 


288  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

"  The  dandy  of  the  present  day  must  have  a 
conquering,  frivolous,  insolent  look.  He  must  pay 
particular  attention  to  his  toilet,  wear  mustaches, 
or  a  beard  trimmed  into  a  circle  like  Queen  Eliza- 
beth's ruff,  or  like  the  radiant  disc  of  the  sun.  He 
shows  the  proud  independence  of  his  character 
by  keeping  his  hat  upon  his  head,  by  lolling  upon 
sofas,  by  thrusting  his  boots  into  the  faces  of  the 
ladies  seated  in  admiration  upon  chairs  before  him. 
He  rides  with  a  cane,  which  he  carries  like  a  taper, 
regardless  of  the  horse,  which  he  bestrides,  as  it 
were,  by  accident.  His  health  must  be  perfect, 
and  he  must  always  have  five  or  six  felicities  upon 
his  hands.  Some  radical  dandies,  who  have  ad- 
vanced the  farthest  towards  the  future,  have  a 
pipe.  But,  no  doubt,  all  this  has  changed,  even 
during  the  time  that  I  have  taken  to  describe  it." — 
Vol.  ii.  pp.  303,  304. 

The  avowed  purpose  of  the  present  work,  singu- 
lar as  it  may  seem  from  the  above  extracts,  is  to 
serve  as  an  introduction  to  a  meditated  translation 
of  Milton  into  French,  since  wholly,  or  in  part, 
completed  by  M.  Chateaubriand,  who  thinks,  truly 
enough,  that  Milton's  "  poetical  ideas  make  him 
a  man  of  our  own  epoch."  When  an  exile  in  Eng- 
land, in  his  early  life,  during  the  troubles  of  the 
Revolution,  our  author  earned  an  honorable  sub- 
sistence by  translating  some  of  Milton's  verses; 
and  he  now  proposes  to  render  the  bard  and  him- 
self the  same  kind  office  by  his  labors  on  a  more 
extended  scale.  Thus  he  concludes :  "I  again 
seat  myself  at  the  table  of  my  poet.  He  mil  have 
nourished  me  in  my  youth  and  my  old  age.    It  is 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  289 

nobler  and  safer  to  have  recourse  to  glory  than  to 
power."  Our  author's  situation  is  an  indifferent 
commentary  on  the  value  of  literary  fame,  at  least 
on  its  pecuniary  value.  No  man  has  had  more  of 
it  in  his  day.  No  man  has  been  more  alert  to 
make  the  most  of  it  by  frequent,  reiterated  appear- 
ance before  the  public, — whether  in  full  dress  or 
dishabille,  yet  always  before  them;  and  now,  in 
the  decHne  of  life,  we  find  him  obtaining  a  scanty 
support  by  "  French  translation  and  Italian 
song."  We  heartily  hope  that  the  bard  of  "  Para- 
dise Lost "  will  do  better  for  his  translator  than 
he  did  for  himself,  and  that  M.  de  Chateaubriand 
will  put  more  than  five  pounds  in  his  pocket  by  his 
Hterary  labor. 


Vol.  I.— is 


BANCROFT'S  UNITED  STATES* 

(January,    1841) 

'T^HE  celebrated  line  of  Bishop  Berkeley, 

"  Westward  the  course  of  empire  takes  its  way," 

is  too  gratifying  to  national  vanity  not  to  be  often 
quoted  (though  not  always  quoted  right)  ;  and  if 
we  look  on  it  in  the  nature  of  a  prediction,  the 
completion  of  it  not  being  hmited  to  any  par- 
ticular time,  it  will  not  be  easy  to  disprove  it.  Had 
the  bishop  substituted  "  freedom  "  for  "  empire," 
it  would  be  already  fully  justified  by  experience. 
It  is  curious  to  observe  how  steadily  the  progress 
of  freedom,  civil  and  religious, — of  the  enjoyment 
of  those  rights  which  may  be  called  the  natural 
rights  of  humanity, — has  gone  on  from  east  to 
west,  and  how  precisely  the  more  or  less  liberal 
character  of  the  social  institutions  of  a  country 
may  be  determined  by  its  geographical  position, 
as  falling  within  the  limits  of  one  of  the  three 
quarters  of  the  globe  occupied  wholly  or  in  part 
by  members  of  the  great  Caucasian  family. 

Thus,  in  Asia  we  find  only  far-extended  des- 
potisms, in  which  but  two  relations  are  recog- 
nized, those  of  master  and  slave :  a  solitary  master, 
and  a  nation  of  slaves.     No  constitution  exists 

*  "  History  of  the  United  States  from  the  Discovery  of  the  Amer- 
ican Continent.     By  George  Bancroft."     Vol.  iii.     Boston:    Charles 
C.  Little  and  James  Brown.    8vo,  pp.  468. 
290 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  291 

there  to  limit  his  authority;  no  intermediate  body- 
to  counterbalance,  or,  at  least,  shield  the  people 
from  its  exercise.  The  people  have  no  political 
existence.  The  monarch  is  literally  the  state.  The 
religion  of  such  countries  is  of  the  same  com- 
plexion with  their  government.  The  free  spirit  of 
Christianity,  quickening  and  elevating  the  soul  by 
the  consciousness  of  its  glorious  destiny,  made 
few  proselytes  there;  but  Mohanmiedanism,  with 
its  doctrines  of  blind  fataHty,  found  ready  favor 
with  those  who  had  already  surrendered  their  wills 
— their  responsibility — to  an  earthly  master.  In 
such  countries,  of  course,  there  has  been  little  prog- 
ress in  science.  Ornamental  arts,  and  even  the 
literature  of  imagination,  have  been  cultivated 
with  various  success;  but  little  has  been  done  in 
those  pursuits  which  depend  on  freedom  of  in- 
quiry and  are  connected  with  the  best  interests 
of  humanity.  The  few  monuments  of  an  archi- 
tectural kind  that  strike  the  traveller's  eye  are 
the  cold  memorials  of  pomp  and  selfish  vanity, 
not  those  of  public  spirit,  directed  to  enlarge  the 
resources  and  civilization  of  an  empire. 

As  we  cross  the  boundaries  into  Europe,  among 
the  people  of  the  same  primitive  stock  and  under 
the  same  parallels,  we  may  imagine  ourselves  trans- 
planted to  another  planet.  Man  no  longer  grovels 
in  the  dust  beneath  a  master's  frown.  He  walks 
erect,  as  lord  of  the  creation,  his  eyes  raised  to 
that  heaven  to  which  his  destinies  call  him.  He 
is  a  free  agent, — thinks,  speaks,  acts  for  himself; 
enjoys  the  fruits  of  his  own  industry;  follows 
the  career  suited  to  his  own  genius  and  taste;  ex- 


292  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

plores  fearlessly  the  secrets  of  time  and  nature; 
lives  under  laws  which  he  has  assisted  in  framing; 
demands  justice  as  his  right  when  those  laws  are 
invaded.  In  his  freedom  of  speculation  and  action 
he  has  devised  various  forms  of  government.  In 
most  of  them  the  monarchical  principle  is  recog- 
nized; but  the  power  of  the  monarch  is  limited  by- 
written  or  customary  rules.  The  people  at  large 
enter  more  or  less  into  the  exercise  of  govern- 
ment; and  a  numerous  aristocracy,  interposed 
between  them  and  the  crown,  secures  them  from 
the  oppression  of  Eastern  tyranny,  while  this  body 
itself  is  so  far  an  improvement  in  the  social  organ- 
ization that  the  power,  instead  of  being  concen- 
trated in  a  single  person, — plaintiff,  judge,  and 
executioner, — is  distributed  among  a  large  number 
of  different  individuals  and  interests.  This  is  a 
great  advance,  in  itself,  towards  popular  freedom. 
The  tendency,  almost  universal,  is  to  advance 
still  farther.  It  is  this  war  of  opinion — this  con- 
test between  light  and  darkness,  now  going  for- 
ward in  most  of  the  countries  of  Europe — which 
furnishes  the  point  of  view  from  which  their  his- 
tory is  to  be  studied  in  the  present,  and,  it  may  be, 
the  following  centuries ;  for  revolutions  in  society, 
when  founded  on  opinion, — the  only  stable  foun- 
dation, the  only  foundation  at  which  the  friend 
of  humanity  does  not  shudder, — must  be  the 
slow  work  of  time;  and  who  would  wish  the 
good  cause  to  be  so  precipitated  that,  in  eradi- 
cating the  old  abuses  which  have  interwoven 
themselves  with  every  stone  and  pillar  of  the  build- 
ing, the  noble  building  itself,  which  has  so  long 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  293 

afforded  security  to  its  inmates,  should  be  laid  in 
ruins?  What  is  the  best,  what  the  worst  form  of 
government,  in  the  abstract,  may  be  matter  of  de- 
bate; but  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  best  will 
become  the  worst  to  a  people  who  blindly  rush  into 
it  without  the  prehminary  training  for  compre- 
hending and  conducting  it.  Such  transitions  must, 
at  least,  cost  the  sacrifice  of  generations ;  and  the 
patriotism  must  be  singularly  pure  and  abstract 
which,  at  such  cost,  would  purchase  the  possible, 
or  even  probable,  good  of  a  remote  posterity. 
Various  have  been  the  efforts  in  the  Old  World  at 
popular  forms  of  government,  but,  from  some 
cause  or  other,  they  have  failed ;  and  however  time, 
a  -wider  intercourse,  a  greater  familiarity  with  the 
practical  duties  of  representation,  and,  not  least  of 
all,  our  own  auspicious  example,  may  prepare  the 
European  mind  for  the  possession  of  republican 
freedom,  it  is  very  certain  that,  at  the  present 
moment,  Europe  is  not  the  place  for  republics. 

The  true  soil  for  these  is  our  o^vn  continent, 
the  New  World,  the  last  of  the  three  great  geo- 
graphical divisions  of  which  we  have  spoken. 
This  is  the  spot  on  which  the  beautiful  theories 
of  the  European  philosopher — who  had  risen  to 
the  full  freedom  of  speculation,  while  action  was 
controlled — have  been  reduced  to  practice.  The 
atmosphere  here  seems  as  fatal  to  the  arbitrary 
institutions  of  the  Old  World  as  that  has  been 
to  the  democratic  forms  of  our  own.  It  seems 
scarcely  possible  that  any  other  organization  than 
these  latter  should  exist  here.  In  three  centuries 
from  the  discovery  of  the  country,  the  various 


294  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

races  by  which  it  is  tenanted,  some  of  them  from 
the  least  hberal  of  the  European  monarchies,  have, 
with  few  exceptions,  come  into  the  adoption  of 
institutions  of  a  repubhcan  character.  Toleration, 
civil  and  religious,  has  been  proclaimed,  and  en- 
joyed to  an  extent  unknown  since  the  world  began, 
tliroughout  the  wide  borders  of  this  vast  continent. 
Alas  for  those  portions  which  have  assumed  the 
exercise  of  these  rights  without  fully  comprehend- 
ing their  import, — who  have  been  intoxicated 
with  the  fumes  of  freedom  instead  of  drawing 
nourislmient  from  its  living  principle! 

It  was  a  fortunate,  or,  to  speak  more  properly, 
a  providential  thing  that  the  discovery  of  the 
New  World  was  postponed  to  the  precise  period 
when  it  occurred.  Had  it  taken  place  at  an  earlier 
time, — during  the  flourishing  period  of  the  feudal 
ages,  for  example, — the  old  institutions  of  Europe, 
with  their  hallowed  abuses,  might  have  been  in- 
grafted on  this  new  stock,  and,  instead  of  the 
fruit  of  the  tree  of  life,  we  should  have  furnished 
only  varieties  of  a  kind  already  far  exhausted  and 
hastening  to  decay.  But,  happily,  some  important 
discoveries  in  science,  and,  above  all,  the  glori- 
ous Reformation,  gave  an  electric  shock  to  the 
intellect,  long  benumbed  under  the  influence  of 
a  tyrannical  priesthood.  It  taught  men  to  dis- 
trust authority,  to  trace  eff'ects  back  to  their  causes, 
to  search  for  themselves,  and  to  take  no  guide  but 
the  reason  which  God  had  given  them.  It  taught 
them  to  claim  the  right  of  free  inquiry  as  their 
inalienable  birthright,  and,  with  free  inquiry, 
freedom  of  action.    The  sixteenth  and  seventeenth 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  295 

centuries  were  the  period  of  the  mighty  struggle 
between  the  conflicting  elements  of  religion,  as 
the  eighteenth  and  nineteenth  have  been  that  of 
the  great  contest  for  civil  liberty. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  this  universal  ferment, 
and  in  consequence  of  it,  that  these  shores  were 
first  peopled  by  our  Puritan  ancestors.  Here  they 
found  a  world  where  they  might  verify  the  value 
of  those  theories  which  had  been  derided  as  vision- 
ary or  denounced  as  dangerous  in  their  own  land. 
All  around  was  free, — free  as  nature  herself:  the 
mighty  streams  rolling  on  in  their  majesty,  as 
they  had  continued  to  roll  from  the  creation;  the 
forests,  which  no  hand  had  violated,  flourishing 
in  primeval  grandeur  and  beauty;  their  only 
tenants  the  wild  animals,  or  the  Indians  nearly 
as  wild,  scarcely  held  together  by  any  tie  of  social 
polity.  Nowhere  was  the  trace  of  civilized  man 
or  of  his  curious  contrivances.  Here  was  no  Star 
Chamber  nor  Court  of  High  Commission;  no 
racks,  nor  jails,  nor  gibbets;  no  feudal  tyrant  to 
grind  the  poor  man  to  the  dust  on  which  he  toiled ; 
no  Inquisition,  to  pierce  into  the  thought,  and  to 
make  thought  a  crime.  The  only  eye  that  was 
upon  them  was  the  eye  of  Heaven. 

True,  indeed,  in  the  first  heats  of  suffering  en- 
thusiasm they  did  not  extend  that  charity  to  others 
which  they  claimed  for  themselves.  It  was  a  blot 
on  their  characters,  but  one  which  they  share  in 
common  with  most  reformers.  The  zeal  requisite 
for  great  revolutions,  whether  in  church  or  state, 
is  rarely  attended  by  charity  for  difl'erence  of 
opinion.     Those  who  are  willing  to  do  and  to 


296  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

suffer  bravely  for  their  own  doctrines  attach  a 
value  to  them  which  makes  them  impatient  of  op- 
position from  others.  The  martyr  for  conscience' 
sake  cannot  comprehend  the  necessity  of  leniency 
to  those  who  denounce  those  truths  for  which  he 
is  prepared  to  lay  down  his  own  life.  If  he  set 
so  little  value  on  his  own  life,  is  it  natural  he  should 
set  more  on  that  of  others  ?  The  Dominican,  who 
dragged  his  victims  to  the  fires  of  the  Inquisition 
in  Spain,  freely  gave  up  his  ease  and  his  life  to 
the  duties  of  a  missionary  among  the  heathen. 
The  Jesuits,  who  suffered  martyrdom  among  the 
American  savages  in  the  propagation  of  their 
faith,  stimulated  those  very  savages  to  their  horrid 
massacres  of  the  Protestant  settlements  of  New 
England.  God  has  not  often  combined  charity 
with  enthusiasm.  When  he  has  done  so,  he  has 
produced  his  noblest  work, — a  More,  or  a  Fenelon. 
But,  if  the  first  settlers  were  intolerant  in 
practice,  they  brought  with  them  the  living  princi- 
ple of  freedom,  which  would  survive  when  their 
generation  had  passed  away.  They  could  not  avoid 
it ;  for  their  coming  here  was  in  itself  an  assertion 
of  that  principle.  They  came  for  conscience'  sake, 
— to  worship  God  in  their  own  way.  Freedom  of 
political  institutions  they  at  once  avowed.  Every 
citizen  took  his  part  in  the  political  scheme,  and 
enjoyed  all  the  consideration  of  an  equal  par- 
ticipation in  civil  privileges;  and  liberty  in  politi- 
cal matters  gradually  brought  with  it  a  corre- 
sponding hberty  in  religious  concerns.  In  their 
subsequent  contest  with  the  mother-country  they 
learned  a  reason  for  their  faith,  and  the  best  man- 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  297 

ner  of  defending  it.  Their  liberties  struck  a  deep 
root  in  the  soil  amid  storms  which  shook  but  could 
not  prostrate  them.  It  is  this  struggle  with  the 
mother-country,  this  constant  assertion  of  the  right 
of  self-government,  this  tendency — feeble  in  its 
beginning,  increasing  w^ith  increasing  age — to- 
wards republican  institutions,  which  connects  the 
Colonial  history  with  that  of  the  Union,  and  forms 
the  true  point  of  view  from  which  it  is  to  be  re- 
garded. 

The  history  of  this  country  naturally  divides  it- 
self into  three  great  periods:  the  Colonial,  when 
the  idea  of  independence  was  slowly  and  gradu- 
ally ripening  in  the  American  mind;  the  Revolu- 
tionary, when  this  idea  was  maintained  by  arms; 
and  that  of  the  Union,  when  it  was  reduced  to 
practice.  The  first  two  heads  are  now  ready  for 
the  historian;  the  last  is  not  j^et  ripe  for  him. 
Important  contributions  may  be  made  to  it  in 
the  form  of  local  narratives,  personal  biographies, 
pohtical  discussions,  subsidiary  documents,  and 
memoirs  pour  servir;  but  we  are  too  near  the 
strife,  too  much  in  the  dust  and  mist  of  the  parties, 
to  have  reached  a  point  sufficiently  distant  and 
elevated  to  embrace  the  whole  field  of  operations 
in  one  view  and  paint  it  in  its  true  colors  and 
proportions  for  the  eye  of  posterity.  We  are, 
besides,  too  new  as  an  independent  nation,  our 
existence  has  been  too  short,  to  satisfy  the  skepti- 
cism of  those  who  distrust  the  perpetuity  of  our 
political  institutions.  They  do  not  consider  the 
problem,  so  important  to  humanity,  as  yet  solved. 
Such  skeptics  are  found  not  only  abroad,  but  at 


298  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

home.    Not  that  the  latter  suppose  the  possibihty 
of  again  returning  to  those  forms  of  arbitrary 
government  which  belong  to  the  Old  World.     It 
would  not  be  more  chimerical  to  suspect  the  Em- 
peror Nicholas,  or  Prince  Metternich,  or  the  citi- 
zen-king Louis  Philippe,  of  being  republicans  at 
heart,  and  sighing  for  a  democracy,  than  to  sus- 
pect the  people  of  this  country  ( above  all,  of  New 
England,  the  most  thorough  democracy  in  ex- 
istence)— ^who  have  inherited  republican  princi- 
ples and  feelings  from  their  ancestors,  drawn  them 
in  with  their  mother's  milk,  breathed  the  atmos- 
phere of  them  from  their  cradle,  participated  in 
their  equal  rights  and  glorious  privileges — of  fore- 
going their  birthright  and  falsifying  their  nature 
so  far  as  to  acquiesce  in  any  other  than  a  popu- 
lar form  of  government.     But  there  are  some 
skeptics  who,  when  they  reflect  on  the  fate  of  simi- 
lar institutions  in  other  countries, — when  they  see 
our  sister  states  of  South  America,  after  nobly 
winning  their  independence,  split  into  insignifi- 
cant fractions, — when  they  see  the  abuses  which 
from  time  to  time  have  crept  into  our  own  ad- 
ministration, and  the  violence  offered,  in  manifold 
w^ays,  to  the  Constitution, — when  they  see  am- 
bitious and  able  statesmen  in  one  section  of  the 
country  proclaiming  principles  which  must  palsy 
the  arm  of  the  Federal  Government,  and  urging 
the  people  of  their  own  quarter  to  efforts  for  secur- 
ing their  independence  of  every  other  quarter, — 
there  are,  we  say,  some  wise  and  benevolent  minds 
among  us  who,  seeing  all  this,  feel  a  natural  dis- 
trust as  to  the  stability  of  the  federal  compact. 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  299 

and  consider  the  experiment  as  still  in  progress. 
We,  indeed,  are  not  of  that  number,  while  we 
respect  and  feel  the  weight  of  their  scruples.  We 
sympathize  full}"  in  those  feelings,  those  hopes, 
it  may  be,  which  animate  the  great  mass  of  our 
countrymen.  Hope  is  the  attribute  of  republics: 
it  should  be  peculiarly  so  of  ours.  Our  fortune  is 
all  in  the  advance.  We  have  no  past  as  compared 
with  the  nations  of  the  Old  World.  Our  exist- 
ence is  but  two  centuries,  dating  from  our  embryo 
state ;  our  real  existence  as  an  independent  people 
little  more  than  half  a  century.  We  are  to  look 
forward,  then,  and  go  forv/ard,  not  with  vain- 
glorious boasting,  but  with  resolution  and  honest 
confidence.  Boasting,  indecorous  in  all,  is  pecu- 
liarly so  in  those  w^ho  take  credit  for  the  great 
things  they  are  going  to  do,  not  those  they  have 
done.  The  glorification  of  an  Englishman  or  a 
Frenchman,  with  a  long  line  of  annals  in  his  rear, 
may  be  offensive;  that  of  an  American  is  ridic- 
ulous. But  we  may  feel  a  just  confidence  from 
the  past  that  we  shall  be  true  to  ourselves  for  the 
future;  that,  to  borrow  a  cant  phrase  of  the  day, 
w^e  shall  be  true  to  our  mission, — the  most  momen- 
tous ever  intrusted  to  a  nation ;  that  there  is  suffi- 
cient intelligence  and  moral  principle  in  the  people, 
if  not  always  to  choose  the  best  rulers,  at  least  to 
right  themselves  by  the  ejection  of  bad  ones  when 
they  find  they  have  been  abused;  that  they  have 
intelligence  enough  to  understand  their  only  con- 
sideration, their  security  as  a  nation,  is  in  union; 
that  separation  into  smaller  communities  is  the 
creation  of  so  many  hostile  states;  that  a  large 


300  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

extent  of  empire,  instead  of  being  an  evil,  from 
embracing  regions  of  irreconcilable  local  interests, 
is  a  benefit,  since  it  affords  the  means  of  that 
commercial  reciprocity  which  makes  the  country, 
by  its  own  resources,  independent  of  every  other; 
and  that  the  representatives  drawn  from  these 
*'  magnificent  distances  "  will,  on  the  whole,  be  apt 
to  legislate  more  independently  and  on  broader 
principles  than  if  occupied  with  the  concerns  of 
a  petty  state,  where  each  legislator  is  swayed  by 
the  paltry  factions  of  his  own  village.  In  all  this 
we  may  honestly  confide;  but  our  confidence  will 
not  pass  for  argument,  will  not  be  accepted  as 
a  solution  of  the  problem.  Time  o^ily  can  solve 
it;  and  until  the  period  has  elapsed  which  shall 
have  fairly  tried  the  strength  of  our  institutions, 
through  peace  and  through  war,  through  adver- 
sity and  more  trying  prosperity,  the  time  will  not 
have  come  to  write  the  history  of  the  Union.* 

But,  still,  results  have  been  obtained  sufficiently 
glorious  to  give  great  consideration  to  the  two  pre- 
liminary narratives,  namely,  of  the  Colonies  and 
the  Revolution,  which  prepared  the  way  for  the 
Union.    Indeed,  without  these  results  they  would 

*  The  preceding  cheering  remarks  on  the  auspicious  destinies  of 
our  country  were  written  more  than  four  years  ago;  and  it  is  not 
now  as  many  days  since  we  have  received  the  melancholy  tidings  that 
the  project  for  the  Annexation  of  Texas  has  been  sanctioned  by 
Congress.  The  remarks  in  the  text  on  "  the  extent  of  empire  "  had 
reference  only  to  that  legitimate  extent  which  might  grow  out  of 
the  peaceful  settlement  and  civilization  of  a  territory,  sufficiently 
ample  certainly,  that  already  belongs  to  us.  The  craving  for  foreign 
acquisitions  has  ever  been  a  most  fatal  sjinptom  in  the  history  of 
republics;  but  when  these  acquisitions  are  made,  as  in  the  present 
instance,  in  contempt  of  constitutional  law  and  in  disregard  of  the 
great  principles  of  international  justice,  the  evil  assumes  a  tenfold 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  SOI 

both,  however  important  in  themselves,  have  lost 
much  of  their  dignity  and  interest.  Of  these  two 
narratives,  the  former,  although  less  momentous 
than  the  latter,  is  most  difficult  to  treat. 

It  is  not  that  the  historian  is  called  on  to  pry 
into  the  dark  recesses  of  antiquity,  the  twilight  of 
civilization,    mystifying    and    magnifying    every 
object  to  the  senses,  nor  to  unravel  some  poeti- 
cal mythology,  hanging  its  metaphorical  allusions 
around  every  thing  in  nature,  mingling  fact  with 
fiction,  the  material  with  the  spiritual,  until  the 
honest  inquirer  after  truth  may  fold  his  arms  in 
despair  before  he  can  cry  eop-rjxa;    nor  is  he  com- 
pelled to  unroll  musty,  worm-eaten  parchments, 
and  dusty  tomes  in  venerable  black  letter,  of  the 
good  times   of  honest   Caxton   and  Winken  de 
Worde,  nor  to  go  about  gleaning  traditionary  tales 
and  ballads  in  some  obsolete  provincial  patois.  The 
record  is  plain  and  legible,  and  he  need  never  go  be- 
hind it.    The  antiquity  of  his  story  goes  but  little 
more  than  two  centuries  back, — a  very  modern 
antiquity.     The  commencement  of  it  was  not  in 
the  dark  ages,  but  in  a  period  of  illumination, — 
an  age  yet  glowing  with  the  imagination  of  Shak- 
speare  and  Spenser,  the  philosophy  of  Bacon,  the 
learning  of  Coke  and  of  Hooker.    The  early  pas- 
magnitude;    for  it  flows  not  so  much  from  the  single  act  as  from 
the  principle  on  which  it  rests,  and  which  may  open  the  way  to  the 
indefinite  perpetration  of  such  acts.     In  glancing  my  eye  over  the 
text  at  this  gloomy  moment,  and  considering  its  general  import,  I 
was  unwilling  to  let  it  go  into  the  world  with  my  name  to  it,  without 
entering  my  protest,  in  common  with  so  many  better  and  wiser  in 
our  country,  against  a  measure  which  every  friend  of  freedom,  both 
at  home  and  abroad,  may  justly  lament  as  the  most  serious  shock 
yet  given  to  the  stability  of  our  glorious  institutions. 


302  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

sages  of  liis  story — coeval  with  Hampden  and 
Milton  and  Sidney — belong  to  the  times  in  which 
the  same  struggle  for  the  rights  of  conscience  was 
going  on  in  the  land  of  our  fathers  as  in  our  o\vn. 
There  was  no  danger  that  the  light  of  the  Pilgrim 
should  be  hid  under  a  bushel,  or  that  there  should 
be  any  dearth  of  chronicler  or  bard — such  as  they 
were — to  record  his  sacrifice.  And  fortunate  for 
us  that  it  was  so,  since  in  this  way  every  part  of 
this  great  enterprise,  from  its  conception  to  its 
consummation,  is  brought  into  the  light  of  day. 
We  are  put  in  possession  not  merely  of  the  action, 
but  of  the  motives  which  led  to  it,  and,  as  to  the 
character  of  the  actors,  are  enabled  to  do  justice 
to  those  who,  if  we  pronounce  from  their  actions 
only,  would  seem  not  always  careful  to  do  justice 
to  themselves. 

The  embarrassment  of  the  Colonial  history 
arises  from  the  difficulty  of  obtaining  a  central 
point  of  interest  among  so  many  petty  states,  each 
independent  of  the  others,  and  all  at  the  same  time 
so  dependent  on  a  foreign  one  as  to  impair  the  his- 
toric dignity  which  attaches  to  great,  powerful, 
and  self -regulated  communities.  This  embarrass- 
ment must  be  overcome  by  the  author's  detecting, 
and  skilfully  keeping  before  the  reader,  some 
great  principle  of  action,  if  such  exist,  that  may 
give  unity  and,  at  the  same  time,  importance  to 
the  theme.  Such  a  principle  did  exist  in  that 
tendency  to  independence,  wliich,  however  feeble 
tiU  fanned  by  the  breath  of  persecution  into  a 
blaze,  was  nevertheless  the  vivifying  principle,  as 
before  remarked,  of  our  ante-revolutionary  annals. 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  303 

Whoever  has  dipped  much  into  historical  read- 
ing is  aware  how  few  have  succeeded  in  weaving 
an  harmonious  tissue  from  the  motley  and  tangled 
skein  of  general  history.  The  most  fortunate 
illustration  of  this  within  our  recollection  is  Sis- 
mondi's  "  RepubUques  Italiennes,"  a  work  in  six- 
teen volumes,  in  which  the  author  has  brought  on 
the  stage  all  the  various  governments  of  Italy  for 
a  thousand  years,  and  in  almost  every  variety  of 
combination.  Yet  there  is  a  pervading  principle 
in  this  great  mass  of  apparently  discordant  inter- 
ests. That  principle  was  the  rise  and  decline  of 
liberty.  It  is  the  key-note  to  every  revolution  that 
occurs.  It  gives  an  harmonious  tone  to  the  many- 
colored  canvas,  which  would  else  have  offended 
by  its  glaring  contrasts  and  the  startling  violence 
of  its  transitions.  The  reader  is  interested  in 
spite  of  the  transitions,  but  knows  not  the  cause. 
This  is  the  skill  of  the  great  artist.  So  true  is  this, 
that  the  same  author  has  been  able  to  concentrate 
what  may  be  called  the  essence  of  his  bulky  histo- 
ry into  a  single  volume,  in  which  he  confines 
himself  to  the  development  of  the  animating 
principle  of  his  narrative,  stripped  of  all  the  super- 
fluous accessories,  under  the  significant  title 
of  "  Rise,  Progress,  and  Decline  of  Italian 
Freedom." 

This  embarrassment  has  not  been  easy  to  over- 
come by  the  writers  of  our  Colonial  annals.  The 
first  volume  of  Marshall's  "  Life  of  Washington  " 
has  great  merit  as  a  wise  and  comprehensive  survey 
of  this  early  period,  but  the  plan  is  too  limited  to 
afford  room  for  any  thing  like  a  satisfactory 


304.  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

fulness  of  detail.  The  most  thorough  work,  and 
incomparably  the  best,  on  the  subject,  previous 
to  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Bancroft's,  is  the  well- 
knov^Ti  history  by  Mr.  Grahame,*  a  truly  valuable 
book,  in  which  the  author,  though  a  foreigner,  has 
shown  himself  capable  of  appreciating  the  motives 
and  comprehending  the  institutions  of  our  Puritan 
ancestors.  He  has  spared  no  pains  in  the  investi- 
gation of  such  original  sources  as  were  at  his  com- 
mand, and  has  conducted  his  inquiries  with  much 
candor,  manifesting  throughout  the  spirit  of  a 
scholar  and  a  gentleman.  It  is  not  very  creditable 
to  his  countrymen  that  they  should  have  received 
his  labors  with  the  apathy  which  he  tells  us  they 
have,  amid  the  ocean  of  contemptible  trash  with 
which  their  press  is  daily  deluged.  But,  in  truth, 
the  Colonial  and  Revolutionary  story  of  this 
country  is  a  theme  too  ungrateful  to  British  ears 
for  us  to  be  astonished  at  any  insensibility  on 
this  score. 

Mr.  Grahame's  work,  however,  with  all  its  merit, 
is  the  work  of  a  foreigner,  and  that  word  compre- 
hends much  that  cannot  be  overcome  by  the  best 
writer.  He  may  produce  a  beautiful  composition, 
faultless  in  style,  accurate  in  the  delineation  of 
prominent  events,  full  of  sound  logic  and  most 
wise  conclusions,  but  he  cannot  enter  into  the 
sympathies,  comprehend  all  the  minute  feelings, 
prejudices,  and  peculiar  ways  of  thinking,  which 

*  "  The  History  of  the  Rise  and  Progress  of  the  United  States  of 
North  America  from  their  Colonization  till  the  Declaration  of 
Independence,"  by  James  Grahame,  an  almost  forgotten  book,  and 
yet  one  of  the  best  histories  of  the  Colonial  period.  Mr.  Grahame 
was   a  Scotchman. — M. 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  305 

form  the  idiosyncrasy  of  the  nation.  What  can 
he  know  of  these  who  has  never  been  warmed 
by  the  same  sun,  Hngered  among  the  same 
scenes,  Hstened  to  the  same  tales  in  childhood, 
been  pledged  to  the  same  interests  in  man- 
hood by  which  these  fancies  are  nourished, — 
the  loves,  the  hates,  the  hopes,  the  fears,  that 
go  to  form  national  character?  Write  as  he 
will,  he  is  still  an  ahen,  speaking  a  tongue  in 
which  the  nation  will  detect  the  foreign  accent. 
He  may  produce  a  book  without  a  blemish  in  the 
eyes  of  foreigners;  it  may  even  contain  much  for 
the  instruction  of  the  native  that  he  would  not  be 
likely  to  find  in  his  own  literature;  but  it  will 
afford  evidence  on  every  page  of  its  exotic  origin. 
Botta's  "  History  of  the  War  of  the  Revolution  " 
is  the  best  treatise  yet  compiled  of  that  event.  It 
is,  as  every  one  knows,  a  most  classical  and  able 
work,  doing  justice  to  most  of  the  great  heroes 
and  actions  of  the  period ;  but,  we  will  venture  to 
say,  no  well-informed  American  ever  turned  over 
its  leaves  without  feeling  that  the  writer  was  not 
nourished  among  the  men  and  the  scenes  he  is 
painting.  With  all  its  great  merits,  it  cannot 
be,  at  least  for  Americans,  the  history  of  the 
Revolution. 

It  is  the  same  as  in  portrait-painting.  The  artist 
may  catch  the  prominent  lineaments,  the  com- 
plexion, the  general  air,  the  peculiar  costume  of 
his  subject, — aU  that  a  stranger's  eye  will  demand; 
but  he  must  not  hope,  unless  he  has  had  much 
previous  intimacy  with  the  sitter,  to  transfer  those 
fleeting  shades  of  expression,  the  almost  imper- 

VoL.  I.— 20 


306  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

ceptible  play  of  features,  which  are  revealed  to  the 
eye  of  his  own  family. 

Who  would  think  of  looking  to  a  Frenchman 
for  a  history  of  England?  to  an  Englishman  for 
the  best  history  of  France?*  Ill  fares  it  with  the 
nation  that  cannot  find  writers  of  genius  to  tell  its 
own  story.  What  foreign  hand  could  have  painted 
like  Herodotus  and  Thucydides  the  achieve- 
ments of  the  Greeks?  who  like  Livy  and  Tacitus 
have  portrayed  the  shifting  character  of  the 
Roman  in  his  rise,  meridian,  and  decline?  Had  the 
Greeks  trusted  their  story  to  these  same  Romans, 
what  would  have  been  their  fate  with  posterity? 
Let  the  Carthaginians  tell.  All  that  remains  of 
this  nation,  the  proud  rival  of  Rome,  who  once 
divided  with  her  the  empire  of  the  Mediterranean 
and  surpassed  her  in  commerce  and  civilization, — 
nearly  all  that  now  remains  to  indicate  her  char- 
acter is  a  poor  proverb,  Punica  fides,  a  brand  of 
infamy  given  by  the  Roman  historian,  and  one 
which  the  Romans  merited  probably  as  richly  as 
the  Carthaginians.  Yet  America,  it  is  too  true, 
must  go  to  Italy  for  the  best  history  of  the  Revo- 
lution, and  to  Scotland  for  the  best  history  of  the 
Colonies.  Happily,  the  work  before  us  bids  fair, 
when  completed,  to  supply  this  deficiency;  and 
it  is  quite  time  we  should  turn  to  it. 

Mr.  Bancroft's  first  two  volumes  have  been  too 
long  before  the  public  to  require  any  thing  to  be 
now  said  of  them.     Indeed,  the  first  has  already 

*  Yet  Prescott  had  already  published  what  is  still  admitted  to 
be  the  best  history  of  the  reign  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  in 
Spain,  when  he  penned  those  lines. — M. 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  307 

been  the  subject  of  a  particular  notice  in  this  Jour- 
nal. These  volumes  are  mainly  occupied  with  the 
settlement  of  the  country  by  the  different  colonies, 
and  the  institutions  gradually  established  among 
them,  with  a  more  particular  illustration  of  the  re- 
markable features  in  their  character  or  policy. 

In  the  present  volume  the  immediate  point  of 
view  is  somewhat  changed.  It  was  no  longer  neces- 
sary to  treat  each  of  the  colonies  separately,  and  a 
manifest  advantage  in  respect  to  unity  is  gained  by 
their  being  brought  more  under  one  aspect.  A 
more  prominent  feature  is  gradually  developed 
by  the  relations  with  the  mother-country.  This  is 
the  mercantile  system,  as  it  is  called  by  economical 
writers,  which  distinguishes  the  colonial  policy  of 
modern  Europe  from  that  of  ancient.  The  great 
object  of  this  system  was  to  get  as  much  profit 
from  the  colonies,  with  as  little  cost  to  the  mother- 
country,  as  possible.  The  former,  instead  of  being 
regarded  as  an  integral  part  of  the  empire, 
were  held  as  property,  to  be  dealt  with  for  the 
benefit  of  the  proprietors.  This  was  the  great 
object  of  legislation,  almost  the  sole  one.  The 
system,  so  different  from  any  thing  known  in  an- 
tiquity, was  introduced  by  the  Spaniards  and  Por- 
tuguese, and  by  them  carried  to  an  extent  which 
no  other  nation  has  cared  to  follow.  By  the  most 
cruel  and  absurd  system  of  prohibitory  legislation, 
their  colonies  were  cut  off  from  intercourse  with 
all  but  the  parent  country;  and,  as  the  latter 
was  unable  to  supply  their  demands  for  even 
the  necessaries  of  fife,  an  extensive  contraband 
trade  was  introduced,  which,  without  satisfying 


308  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

the  wants  of  the  colonies,  corrupted  their  morals. 
It  is  an  old  story,  and  the  present  generation  has 
witnessed  the  results,  in  the  ruin  of  those  fine 
countries  and  the  final  assertion  of  their  inde- 
pendence, which  the  degraded  condition  in  which 
they  have  so  long  been  held  has  wholly  unfitted 
them  to  enjoy. 

The  English  government  was  too  wise  and 
liberal  to  press  thus  heavily  on  its  transatlantic 
subjects;  but  the  policy  was  similar,  consisting, 
as  is  well  known,  and  is  ably  delineated  in  these 
volumes,  of  a  long  series  of  restrictive  measures, 
tending  to  cramp  their  free  trade,  manufactures, 
and  agriculture,  and  to  secure  the  commercial  mo- 
nopoly of  Great  Britain.  This  is  the  point  from 
which  events  in  the  present  volume  are  to  be  more 
immediately  contemplated,  all  subordinate,  like 
those  in  the  preceding,  to  that  leading  principle  of 
a  republican  tendency, — the  centre  of  attraction, 
controlling  the  movements  of  the  numerous  satel- 
lites in  our  colonial  system. 

The  introductory  chapter  in  the  volume  opens 
with  a  view  of  the  English  Revolution  in  1688, 
which,  though  not  popular,  is  rightly  character- 
ized as  leading  the  way  to  popular  liberty.  Its 
great  object  was  the  security  of  property;  and  our 
author  has  traced  its  operation,  in  connection  with 
the  gradual  progress  of  commercial  wealth,  to 
give  greater  authority  to  the  mercantile  system. 
We  select  the  following  original  sketch  of  the 
character  of  William  the  Third : 

"  The  character  of  the  new  monarch  of  Great 
Britain  could  mould  its  policy,  but  not  its  Consti- 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  309 

tution.  True  to  his  purposes,  he  yet  wins  no  sym- 
pathy. In  pohtical  sagacity,  in  force  of  will,  far 
superior  to  the  Enghsh  statesmen  who  environed 
him,  more  tolerant  than  his  ministers  or  his  Parlia- 
ments, the  childless  man  seems  like  the  unkno^vn 
character  in  algebra,  which  is  introduced  to  form 
the  equation  and  dismissed  when  the  problem  is 
solved.  In  his  person  thin  and  feeble,  with  eyes 
of  a  hectic  lustre,  of  a  temperament  inclining  to  the 
melancholic,  in  conduct  cautious,  of  a  self -relying 
humor,  with  abiding  impressions  respecting  men, 
he  sought  no  favor,  and  relied  for  success  on  his 
OMU  inflexibility  and  the  greatness  and  maturity 
of  his  designs.  Too  wise  to  be  cajoled,  too  firm  to 
be  complaisant,  no  address  could  sway  his  resolve. 
In  Holland  he  had  not  scrupled  to  derive  an  in- 
creased power  from  the  crimes  of  rioters  and  as- 
sassins; in  England,  no  filial  respect  diminished 
the  energy  of  his  ambition.  His  exterior  was 
chilling ;  yet  he  had  a  passionate  delight  in  horses 
and  the  chase.  In  conversation  he  was  abrupt, 
speaking  little  and  slowly,  and  with  repulsive  dry- 
ness ;  in  the  day  of  battle  he  was  all  activity,  and 
the  highest  energy  of  life,  without  kindling  his 
passions,  animated  his  frame.  His  trust  in  Provi- 
dence was  so  connected  with  faith  in  general  laws 
that  in  every  action  he  sought  the  principle  which 
should  range  it  on  an  absolute  decree.  Thus,  un- 
conscious to  himself,  he  had  sympathy  vnth  the 
people,  who  always  have  faith  in  Providence.  '  Do 
you  dread  death  in  my  company? '  he  cried  to  the 
anxious  sailors,  when  the  ice  on  the  coast  of  Hol- 
land had  almost  crushed  the  boat  that  was  bearing 


310  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

him  to  the  shore.  Courage  and  pride  pervaded 
the  reserve  of  the  prince  who,  spurning  an  aUiance 
with  a  bastard  daughter  of  Louis  XIV.,  had  made 
himself  the  centre  of  a  gigantic  opposition  to 
France.  For  England,  for  the  English  people, 
for  English  liberties,  he  had  no  affection,  indiffer- 
ently employing  the  Whigs,  who  found  their  pride 
in  the  Revolution,  and  the  Tories,  who  had  op- 
posed his  elevation,  and  who  yet  were  the  fittest 
instruments  '  to  carry  the  prerogative  high.'  One 
great  passion  had  absorbed  his  breast, — the  inde- 
pendence of  his  native  country.  The  harsh  en- 
croachments of  Louis  XIV.,  which  in  1672  had 
made  William  of  Orange  a  Revolutionary  stadt- 
holder,  now  assisted  to  constitute  him  a  Revo- 
lutionary king,  transforming  the  impassive  cham- 
pion of  Dutch  independence  into  the  defender  of 
the  liberties  of  Europe." — Vol.  iii.  pp.  2-4. 

The  chapter  proceeds  to  examine  the  relations, 
not  always  of  the  most  friendly  aspect,  between 
England  and  the  colonies,  in  which  Mr.  Bancroft 
pays  a  well-merited  tribute  to  the  enlightened 
policy  of  Penn  and  the  tranquillity  he  secured  to 
his  settlement.  At  the  close  of  the  chapter  is  an 
account  of  that  lamentable — farce,  we  should  have 
called  it,  had  it  not  so  tragic  a  conclusion — the 
Salem  witchcraft. 

Our  author  has  presented  some  very  striking 
sketches  of  these  deplorable  scenes,  in  which  poor 
human  nature  appears  in  as  humiliating  a  plight 
as  would  be  possible  in  a  civilized  country.  The 
Inquisition,  fierce  as  it  was,  and  most  unrelenting 
in  its  persecutions,  had  something  in  it  respectable 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  311 

in  comparison  with  this  -UTetched  and  imbecile 
self-delusion.  The  historian  does  not  shrink  from 
distributing  his  censure  in  full  measure  to  those 
to  whom  he  thinks  it  belongs.  The  erudite  divine, 
Cotton  Mather,  in  particular,  would  feel  little 
pleasure  in  the  contemplation  of  the  portrait 
sketched  for  him  on  this  occasion.  Vanitj^  accord- 
ing to  INIr.  Bancroft,  was  quite  as  active  an  incen- 
tive to  his  movements  as  religious  zeal;  and,  if  he 
began  with  the  latter,  there  seems  no  reason  to 
doubt  that  pride  of  opinion,  an  un\AaUingness  to  ex- 
pose his  error,  so  humihating  to  the  world,  perhaps 
even  to  his  own  heart,  were  powerful  stimulants 
to  his  continuing  the  course  he  had  begun,  though 
others  faltered  in  it. 

Mr.  Bancroft  has  taken  some  pains  to  show 
that  the  prosecutions  were  conducted  before  magis- 
trates not  appointed  by  the  people,  but  the  crown, 
and  that  a  stop  was  not  put  to  them  till  after  the 
meeting  of  the  representatives  of  the  people.  This, 
in  our  view,  is  a  distinction  somewhat  fanciful. 
The  judges  held  their  commissions  from  the  gover- 
nor ;  and  if  he  was  appointed  b}'-  the  crown  it  was, 
as  our  author  admits,  at  the  suggestion  of  Increase 
JVIather,  a  minister  of  the  people.  The  accusers, 
the  witnesses,  the  jurors,  were  all  taken  from  the 
people.  And  when  a  stop  was  put  to  farther  pro- 
ceedings by  the  seasonable  delay  interposed  by  the 
General  Court,  before  the  assembling  of  the 
*'  legal  colonial  "  tribunal  (thus  giving  time  for  the 
illusion  to  subside) ,  it  was,  in  part,  from  the  appre- 
hension that,  in  the  rising  tide  of  accusation,  no 
man,  however  elevated  mJght  be  his  character  or 
condition,  would  be  safe. 


312  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

In  the  following  chapter,  after  a  full  exposi- 
tion of  the  prominent  features  in  the  system  of 
commercial  monopoly  which  controlled  the  affairs 
of  the  colonies,  we  are  introduced  to  the  great 
discoveries  in  the  northern  and  western  regions 
of  the  continent,  made  by  the  Jesuit  missionaries 
of  France.  Nothing  is  more  extraordinary  in  the 
history  of  this  remarkable  order  than  their  bold 
enterprise  in  spreading  their  faith  over  this  bound- 
less wilderness,  in  defiance  of  the  most  appalling 
obstacles  which  man  and  nature  could  present. 
Faith  and  zeal  triumphed  over  all,  and,  combined 
with  science  and  the  spirit  of  adventure,  laid  open 
unknown  regions  in  the  heart  of  this  vast  conti- 
nent, then  roamed  over  by  the  buffalo  and  the 
savage,  and  now  alive  with  the  busy  hum  of  an 
industrious  and  civilized  population. 

The  historian  has  diligently  traced  the  progress 
of  the  missionaries  in  their  journeys  into  the  west- 
ern territory  of  Michigan,  Wisconsin,  Illinois, 
down  the  deep  basin  of  the  Mississippi  to  its 
mouth.  He  has  identified  the  scenes  of  some  strik- 
ing events  in  the  history  of  discovery,  as,  among 
others,  the  place  where  Marquette  first  met  the 
Illinois  tribe,  at  Iowa.  No  preceding  writer  has 
brought  into  view  the  results  of  these  labors  in  a 
compass  which  may  be  embraced,  as  it  were,  in 
a  single  glance.  The  character  of  this  order,*  and 
their  fortune,  form  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
objects  for  contemplation  in  the  history  of  man. 
Springing  up,  as  it  were,  to  prop  the  crumbling 

*  "  The  Society  of  Jesus  "  stopped  the  reform  movement  in  the 
German  lands  and  brought  about  the  "  Counter  Reformation." — M. 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  313 

edifice  of  Catholicism  when  it  was  reeUng  under 
the  fii'st  shock  of  the  Reformation,  it  took  up 
its  residence  indifferently  within  the  precincts  of 
palaces  or  in  the  houndless  plains  and  forests  of 
the  wilderness,  held  the  consciences  of  civilized 
monarchs  in  its  keeping,  and  directed  their  coun- 
sels, while  at  the  same  time  it  was  gathering  bar- 
barian nations  under  its  banners  and  pouring  the 
light  of  civilization  into  the  farthest  and  darkest 
quarters  of  the  globe. 

"  The  establishment  of  *  the  Society  of  Jesus,'  " 
says  Mr.  Bancroft,  "  by  Loyola  had  been  con- 
temporary with  the  Reformation,  of  which  it  was 
designed  to  arrest  the  progress,  and  its  complete 
organization  belongs  to  the  period  when  the  first 
full  edition  of  Calvin's  '  Institutes '  saw  the  light. 
Its  members  were,  by  its  rules,  never  to  become 
prelates,  and  could  gain  power  and  distinction 
only  by  influence  over  mind.  Their  vows  were 
poverty,  chastity,  absolute  obedience,  and  a  con- 
stant readiness  to  go  on  missions  against  heresy 
or  heathenism.  Their  cloisters  became  the  best 
schools  in  the  world.  Emancipated,  in  a  great 
degree,  from  the  forms  of  piety,  separated  from 
domestic  ties,  constituting  a  community  essentially 
intellectual  as  well  as  essentially  plebeian,  bound 
together  by  the  most  perfect  organization,  and 
having  for  their  end  a  control  over  opinion  among 
the  scholars  and  courts  of  Europe  and  throughout 
the  habitable  globe,  the  order  of  the  Jesuits  held 
as  its  ruling  maxims  the  widest  diffusion  of  its 
influence,  and  the  closest  internal  unity.  Imme- 
diately on  its  institution,  their  missionaries,  kind- 


314  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

ling  with  a  heroism  that  defied  every  danger  and 
endured  every  toil,  made  their  way  to  the  ends 
of  the  earth;  they  raised  the  emblem  of  man's 
salvation  on  the  Moluccas,  in  Japan,  in  India,  in 
Thibet,  in  Cochin  China,  and  in  China ;  they  pene- 
trated Ethiopia,  and  reached  the  Abyssinians ; 
they  planted  missions  among  the  CafFres ;  in  Cal- 
ifornia, on  the  banks  of  the  Maranhon,  in  the 
plains  of  Paraguay,  they  invited  the  wildest  of 
barbarians  to  the  civilization  of  Christianity." 

"  Religious  enthusiasm,"  he  adds,  "  colonized 
New  England ;  and  religious  enthusiasm  founded 
Montreal,  made  a  conquest  of  the  wilderness  on 
the  upper  Lakes,  and  explored  the  Mississippi. 
Puritanism  gave  New  England  its  worship  and 
its  schools ;  the  Roman  Church  created  for  Canada 
its  altars,  its  hospitals,  and  its  seminaries.  The 
influence  of  Calvin  *  can  be  traced  to  every  New 
England  village;  in  Canada,  the  monuments  of 
feudalism  and  the  Catholic  Church  stand  side  by 
side,  and  the  names  of  Montmorenci  and  Bourbon, 
of  Levi  and  Conde,  are  mingled  with  memorials 
of  St.  Athanasius  and  Augustin,  of  St.  Francis 
of  Assisi  and  Ignatius  Loyola." — Ihid.,  pp.  120, 
121. 

We  hardly  know  which  to  select  from  the  many 
brilliant  and  spirited  sketches  in  which  this  part 
of  the  story  abounds.  None  has  more  interest, 
on  the  whole,  than  the  discovery  of  the  Mississippi 
by  Marquette  and  his  companions,  and  the  first 

*  It  is  to  the  influence  of  Calvin  that  the  New  England  "  Town 
Meeting "  is  due.  Where  Calvinism  did  not  dominate  in  America 
such  a  system  of  government  is  unknown. — M, 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  315 

voyage  of  the  white  men  down  its  majestic  waters: 
"Behold,  then,  in  1673,  on  the  tenth  day  of 
June,  the  meek,  single-hearted,  unpretending,  il- 
lustrious Marquette,  with  Joliet  for  his  associate, 
five  Frenchmen  as  his  companions,  and  two  Algon- 
quins  as  guides,  lifting  their  two  canoes  on  their 
backs  and  walking  across  the  narrow  portage  that 
divides  the  Fox  River  from  the  Wisconsin.    They 
reach  the  water-shed ;  uttering  a  special  prayer  to 
the  immaculate  Virgin,  they  leave  the  streams  that, 
flowing  onward,  could  have  borne  their  greetings 
to  the  Castle  of  Quebec;    already  they  stand  by 
the  Wisconsin.     '  The  guides  returned,'  says  the 
gentle  Marquette,  '  leaving  us  alone  in  this  un- 
known land,  in  the  hands  of  Providence.'    France 
and  Christianity  stood  in  the  Valley  of  the  Mis- 
sissippi. Embarking  on  the  broad  Wisconsin,  the 
discoverers,   as  they  sailed  west,   went  solitarily 
down  the  stream,  between  alternate  prairies  and 
hill-sides,  beholding  neither  man  nor  the  wonted 
beasts  of  the  forest :    no  sound  broke  the  appalling 
silence  but  the  ripple  of  their  canoe  and  the  lowing 
of  the  buffalo.   In  seven  days  '  they  entered  happi- 
ly the  Great  River,  with  a  joy  that  could  not  be 
expressed;'    and  the  two  birch-bark  canoes,  rais- 
ing their  happy  sails  under  new  skies  and  to  un- 
known breezes,  floated  gently  down  the  calm  mag- 
nificence of  the  ocean  stream,  over  the  broad,  clear 
sand-bars,  the  resort  of  innumerable  water-fowl, — 
gliding  past  islands  that  swelled  from  the  bosom 
of  the  stream,  with  their  tufts  of  massive  thickets, 
and  between  the  wide  plains  of  Illinois  and  Iowa, 
all  garlanded  as  they  were  with  majestic  forests. 


316  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

or  checkered  by  island  grove  and  the  open  vastness 
of  the  prairie. 

"  About  sixty  leagues  below  the  mouth  of  the 
Wisconsin,  the  western  bank  of  the  Mississippi 
bore  on  its  sands  the  trail  of  men ;  a  little  footpath 
was  discerned  leading  into  a  beautiful  prairie; 
and,  leaving  the  canoes,  Joliet  and  Marquette  re- 
solved alone  to  brave  a  meeting  with  the  savages. 
After  walking  six  miles,  they  beheld  a  village  on 
the  banks  of  a  river,  and  two  others  on  a  slope,  at 
a  distance  of  a  mile  and  a  half  from  the  first. 
The  river  was  the  Mou-in-gou-e-na,  or  Moingona, 
of  which  we  have  corrupted  the  name  into  Des 
Moines.  Marquette  and  Joliet  were  the  first  white 
men  who  trod  the  soil  of  Iowa.  Commending 
themselves  to  God,  they  uttered  a  loud  cry. 
The  Indians  hear;  four  old  men  advance  slowly 
to  meet  them,  bearing  the  peace-pipe  brilliant 
with  many-colored  plumes.  '  We  are  Illinois, '  said 
they ;  that  is,  when  translated,  '  We  are  men ; ' 
and  they  offered  the  calumet.  An  aged  chief  re- 
ceived them  at  his  cabin  with  upraised  hands,  ex- 
claiming, '  How  beautiful  is  the  sun,  Frenchmen, 
when  thou  comest  to  visit  us!  Our  whole  village 
awaits  thee;  thou  shalt  enter  in  peace  into  all  our 
dwellings.'  And  the  pilgrims  were  followed  by  the 
devouring  gaze  of  an  astonished  crowd. 

"  At  the  great  council,  Marquette  published  to 
them  the  one  true  God,  their  creator.  He  spoke, 
also,  of  the  great  captain  of  the  French,  the  Gover- 
nor of  Canada,  who  had  chastised  the  Five  Na- 
tions and  commanded  peace;  and  he  questioned 
them  respecting  the  Mississippi  and  the  tribes 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  317 

that  possessed  its  banks.  For  the  messengers  who 
announced  the  subjection  of  the  Iroquois,  a  mag- 
nificent festival  was  prepared  of  hominy,  and  fish, 
and  the  choicest  viands  from  the  prairies. 

"  After  six  days'  delay,  and  invitations  to  new 
visits,  the  chieftain  of  the  tribe,  with  hundreds  of 
warriors,  attended  the  strangers  to  their  canoes; 
and,  selecting  a  peace-pipe  embellished  with  the 
head  and  neck  of  brilhant  birds  and  all  feathered 
over  with  plumage  of  various  hues,  they  hung 
around  Marquette  the  mysterious  arbiter  of  peace 
and  war,  the  sacred  calumet,  a  safeguard  among 
the  nations. 

"  The  little  group  proceeded  onward.  '  I  did 
not  fear  death,'  says  Marquette ;  '  I  should  have 
esteemed  it  the  greatest  happiness  to  have  died  for 
the  glory  of  God.'  They  passed  the  perpendicular 
rocks,  which  wore  the  appearance  of  monsters; 
they  heard  at  a  distance  the  noise  of  the  waters  of 
the  ^lissouri,  known  to  them  by  the  Algonquin 
name  of  Pekitanoni;  and  when  they  came  to  the 
most  beautiful  confluence  of  waters  in  the  world 
— where  the  swifter  Missouri  rushes  like  a  con- 
queror into  the  calmer  Mississippi,  dragging  it, 
as  it  were,  hastily  to  the  sea — the  good  Mar- 
quette resolved  in  his  heart,  anticipating  Lewis 
and  Clarke,  one  day  to  ascend  the  mighty  river  to 
its  source,  to  cross  the  ridge  that  divides  the  oceans, 
and,  descending  a  westerly-flowing  stream,  to  pub- 
lish the  gospel  to  all  the  people  of  this  New  World. 

"  In  a  little  less  than  forty  leagues,  the  canoes 
floated  past  the  Ohio,  which  was  then,  and  long 
afterward,  called  the  Wabash.     Its  banks  were 


318  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

tenanted  by  numerous  villages  of  the  peaceful 
Shawnees,  who  quailed  under  the  incursions  of  the 
Iroquois. 

"  The  thick  canes  begin  to  appear  so  close  and 
strong  that  the  buffalo  could  not  break  through 
them ;  the  insects  become  intolerable ;  as  a  shelter 
against  the  suns  of  July,  the  sails  are  folded  into 
an  awning.  The  prairies  vanish;  thick  forests 
of  whitewood,  admirable  for  their  vastness  and 
height,  crowd  even  to  the  skirts  of  the  pebbly  shore. 
It  is  also  observed  that,  in  the  land  of  the  Chick- 
asas,  the  Indians  have  guns. 

"  Near  the  latitude  of  thirty-three  degrees,  on 
the  western  bank  of  the  Mississippi,  stood  the 
village  of  Mitchigamea,  in  a  region  that  had  not 
been  visited  by  Europeans  since  the  days  of  De 
Soto.  '  Now, '  thought  Marquette,  '  we  must  in- 
deed ask  the  aid  of  the  Virgin. '  Armed  with 
bows  and  arrows,  with  clubs,  axes,  and  bucklers, 
amid  continual  whoops,  the  natives,  bent  on  war, 
embark  in  vast  canoes  made  out  of  the  trunks  of 
hollow  trees;  but,  at  the  sight  of  the  mysterious 
peace-pipe  held  aloft,  God  touched  the  hearts  of 
the  old  men,  who  checked  the  impetuosity  of  the 
young,  and,  throwing  their  bows  and  quivers  into 
the  canoes  as  a  token  of  peace,  they  prepared  a 
hospitable  welcome. 

"  The  next  day,  a  long  wooden  canoe,  containing 
ten  men,  escorted  the  discoverers,  for  eight  or  ten 
leagues,  to  the  village  of  Akansea,  the  limit  of 
their  voyage.  They  had  left  the  region  of  the 
Algonquins,  and,  in  the  midst  of  the  Sioux  and 
Chickasas,  could  speak  only  by  an  interpreter.    A 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  319 

half -league  above  Akansea  they  were  met  by  two 
boats,  in  one  of  which  stood  the  commander,  hold- 
ing in  his  hand  the  peace-pipe,  and  singing  as  he 
drew  near.  After  offering  the  pipe,  he  gave 
bread  of  maize.  The  wealth  of  his  tribe  consisted 
in  buffalo-skins ;  their  weapons  were  axes  of  steel, 
— a  proof  of  commerce  with  Europeans. 

"  Thus  had  our  travellers  descended  below  the 
entrance  of  the  Arkansas,  to  the  genial  chmes  that 
have  almost  no  winter  but  rains,  beyond  the  bound 
of  the  Huron  and  Algonquin  languages,  to  the 
vicinity  of  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  and  to  tribes  of 
Indians  that  had  obtained  European  arms  by  traf- 
fic with  Spaniards  or  with  Virginia. 

"  So,  having  spoken  of  God  and  the  mysteries 
of  the  Catholic  faith,  having  become  certain  that 
the  Father  of  Rivers  went  not  to  the  ocean  east  of 
Florida,  nor  yet  to  the  Gulf  of  California,  Mar- 
quette and  Joliet  left  Akansea  and  ascended  the 
Mississippi. 

"  At  the  thirty-eighth  degree  of  latitude  thej'- 
entered  the  river  Illinois,  and  discovered  a  country 
without  its  paragon  for  the  fertility  of  its  beauti- 
ful prairies,  covered  with  buffaloes  and  stags ;  for 
the  loveliness  of  its  rivulets,  and  the  prodigal  abun- 
dance of  wild  duck  and  swans,  and  of  a  species  of 
parrots  and  wild  turkeys.  The  tribe  of  Illinois, 
that  tenanted  its  banks,  entreated  Marquette  to 
come  and  reside  among  them.  One  of  their  chiefs, 
with  their  young  men,  conducted  the  party,  by 
way  of  Chicago,  to  Lake  Michigan;  and  before 
the  end  of  September  all  were  safe  in  Green  Bay. 

"  Joliet  returned  to  Quebec  to  announce  the  dis- 


320  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

covery,  of  which  the  fame,  through  Talon,  quick- 
ened the  ambition  of  Colbert ;  the  unaspiring  Mar- 
quette remained  to  preach  the  gospel  to  the  Mi- 
amis,  who  dwelt  in  the  north  of  Illinois,  round  Chi- 
cago. Two  years  afterward,  sailing  from  Chicago 
to  Mackinaw,  he  entered  a  little  river  in  Michigan. 
Erecting  an  altar,  he  said  mass  after  the  rites  of 
the  Catholic  Church;  then,  begging  the  men  who 
conducted  his  canoe  to  leave  him  alone  for  half  an 
hour, 

'  in  the  darkling  wood. 
Amid   the  cool   and  silence,  he  knelt   down. 
And  offered  to  the  Mightiest  solemn  thanks 
And  supplication.' 

At  the  end  of  the  half -hour  they  went  to  seek  him, 
and  he  was  no  more.  The  good  missionary,  dis- 
coverer of  a  world,  had  fallen  asleep  on  the  margin 
of  the  stream  that  bears  his  name.  Near  its  mouth 
the  canoe-men  dug  his  grave  in  the  sand.  Ever 
after,  the  forest  rangers,  if  in  danger  on  Lake 
Michigan,  would  invoke  his  name.  The  people 
of  the  West  will  build  his  monument." — Ibid.,  pp. 
157-162. 

The  list  of  heroic  adventurers  in  the  path  of  dis- 
covery is  closed  by  La  Salle,  the  chivalrous  French- 
man of  whom  we  have  made  particular  record  in 
a  previous  number  of  this  Journal,*  and  whose 
tremendous  journey  from  the  Illinois  to  the 
French  settlements  in  Canada,  a  distance  of  fif- 
teen hundred  miles,  is  also  noticed  by  Mr.  Ban- 
croft. His  was  the  first  European  bark  that 
emerged  from  the  mouth  of  the  Mississippi;   and 

*  See  "  North  American  Review,"  vol.   xlviii.   p.  69,  et  seq. 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  321 

Mr.  Bancroft,  as  he  notices  the  event,  and  the  feel- 
ings it  gave  rise  to  in  the  mind  of  the  discoverer, 
gives  utterance  to  his  own  in  language  truly  sub- 
lime: 

"  As  he  raised  the  cross  by  the  Arkansas,  as 
he  planted  the  arms  of  France  near  the  Gulf  of 
Mexico,  he  anticipated  the  future  affluence  of  emi- 
grants, and  heard  in  the  distance  the  footsteps  of 
the  advancing  multitude  that  were  coming  to  take 
possession  of  the  valley." — Ibid.^  p.  168. 

This  descent  of  the  Great  River  our  author 
places,  without  hesitation,  in  1682,  being  a  year 
earUer  than  the  one  assigned  by  us  in  the  article 
referred  to.*  Mr.  Bancroft  is  so  famihar  with  the 
whole  ground,  and  has  studied  the  subject  so 
carefully,  that  great  weight  is  due  to  his  opinions ; 
but  he  has  not  explained  the  precise  authority  for 
his  conclusions  in  this  particular. 

This  leads  us  to  enlarge  on  what  we  consider 
a  defect  in  our  author's  present  plan.  His  notes 
are  discarded  altogether,  and  his  references  trans- 
ferred from  the  bottom  of  the  page  to  the  side- 
margin.  This  is  verj^  objectionable,  not  merely 
on  account  of  the  disagreeable  effect  produced 
on  the  eye,  but  from  the  more  serious  incon- 
venience of  want  of  room  for  very  frequent  and 
accurate  reference.  Titles  are  necessarily  much 
abridged,  sometimes  at  the  expense  of  perspicuity. 
The  fii'st  reference  in  this  volume  is  "  Hallam,  iv. 
374;  "  the  second  is  "Archdale."  Now  Hallam  has 
wTitten  several  works,  published  in  various  forms 
and  editions.    As  to  the  second  authority,  we  have 

*Ibid.,  pp.  84,  85. 
Vol.  I.— 21 


322  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

no  means  of  identifying  the  passage  at  all.  This, 
however,  is  not  the  habit  of  Mr.  Bancroft  where 
the  fact  is  of  any  great  moment,  and  his  references 
throughout  are  abundant.  But  the  practice  of 
references  in  the  side-margin,  though  warranted 
by  high  authority,  is  unfavorable,  from  want  of 
room,  for  very  frequent  or  very  minute  specifica- 
tion. 

The  omission  of  notes  we  consider  a  still  greater 
evil.  It  is  true,  they  lead  to  great  abuses,  are  often 
the  vehicle  of  matter  which  should  have  been  in- 
corporated in  the  text,  more  frequently  of  irrel- 
evant matter  which  should  not  have  been  admit- 
ted anywhere,  and  thus  exhaust  the  reader's 
patience,  while  they  spoil  the  effect  of  the  work 
by  drawing  the  attention  from  the  continuous  flow 
of  the  narrative,  checking  the  heat  that  is  raised 
by  it  in  the  reader's  mind,  and  not  unfrequently 
jarring  on  his  feelings  by  some  misplaced  witticism 
or  smart  attempt  at  one.  For  these  and  the  like 
reasons,  many  competent  critics  have  pronounced 
against  the  use  of  notes,  considering  that  a  WTiter 
who  could  not  bring  all  he  had  to  say  into  the 
compass  of  his  text  was  a  bungler.  Gibbon,  who 
practiced  the  contrary,  intimates  a  regret  in  one 
of  his  letters  that  he  had  been  overruled  so  far  as 
to  allow  his  notes  to  be  printed  at  the  bottom  of 
the  page  instead  of  being  removed  to  the  end 
of  the  volume.  But  from  all  this  we  dissent, 
especially  in  reference  to  a  work  of  research  like 
the  present  History.  We  are  often  desirous  here 
to  have  the  assertion  of  the  author,  or  the  senti- 
ment quoted  by  him,  if  important,  verified  by  the 
original  extract,  especially  when  this  is  in  a  for- 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  323 

eign  language.  We  want  to  see  the  grounds  of 
his  conclusions,  the  scaffolding  by  which  he  has 
raised  his  structure ;  to  estimate  the  true  value  of 
his  authorities;  to  know  something  of  their  char- 
acters, positions  in  society,  and  the  probable  influ- 
ences to  which  they  were  exposed.  Where  there 
is  contradiction,  we  want  to  see  it  stated,  the  'pros 
and  the  cons,  and  the  grounds  for  rejecting  this 
and  admitting  that  We  want  to  have  a  reason  for 
our  faith,  otherwise  we  are  merely  led  blind- 
fold. 

Our  guide  may  be  an  excellent  guide;  he  may 
have  travelled  over  the  path  till  it  has  become 
a  beaten  track  to  liim;  but  we  like  to  use  our  own 
eyesight  too,  to  observe  somewhat  for  ourselves, 
and  to  know,  if  possible,  why  he  has  taken  this 
particular  road  in  preference  to  that  wliich  his 
predecessors  have  travelled. 

The  objections  made  to  notes  are  founded 
rather  on  the  abuse  than  on  the  proper  use  of 
them.  Gibbon  only  wished  to  remove  his  own  to 
the  end  of  his  volume;  though  in  this  we  think 
he  erred,  from  the  difficulty  and  frequent  disap- 
pointment which  the  reader  must  have  experi- 
enced in  consulting  them, — a  disappointment  of 
little  moment  when  unattended  by  difficulty.  But 
Gibbon  knew  too  well  the  worth  of  this  part  of  his 
labors  to  him  to  wish  to  discard  them  altogether. 
He  knew  his  reputation  stood  on  them  as  inti- 
mately as  on  his  narrative.  Indeed,  they  supply 
a  body  of  criticism,  and  well-selected,  well-digested 
learning,  which  of  itself  would  make  the  reputa- 
tion of  any  scholar.    Many  accomplished  writers. 


324  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

however,  and  Mr.  Bancroft  among  the  number, 
have  come  to  a  different  conclusion;  and  he  has 
formed  his,  probably,  with  deliberation,  having 
made  the  experiment  in  both  forms. 

It  is  true,  the  fulness  of  the  extracts  from 
original  sources  with  which  his  text  is  inlaid,  giv- 
ing such  life  and  presence  to  it,  and  the  frequency 
of  his  references,  supersede  much  of  the  necessity 
of  notes.  We  should  have  been  very  glad  of  one, 
however,  of  the  kind  we  are  speaking  of,  at  the 
close  of  his  expedition  of  La  Salle. 

We  have  no  room  for  the  discussion  of  the 
topics  in  the  next  chapter,  relating  to  the  hostili- 
ties for  the  acquisition  of  colonial  territory  be- 
tween France  and  England,  each  of  them  pledged 
to  the  same  system  of  commercial  monopoly,  but 
must  pass  to  the  author's  account  of  the  aborigines 
east  of  the  Mississippi.  In  this  division  of  his 
subject  he  brings  into  view  the  geographical  posi- 
tions of  the  numerous  tribes,  their  languages, 
social  institutions,  religious  faith,  and  probable 
origin.  All  these  copious  topics  are  brought 
within  the  compass  of  a  hundred  pages,  arranged 
with  great  harmony,  and  exhibited  with  per- 
spicuity and  singular  richness  of  expression.  It 
is,  on  the  whole,  the  most  elaborate  and  finished 
portion  of  the  volume. 

His  remarks  on  the  localities  of  the  tribes,  in- 
stead of  a  barren  muster-roU  of  names,  are  con- 
stantly enlivened  by  picturesque  details  connected 
with  their  situation.  His  strictures  on  their 
various  languages  are  conceived  in  a  philosophical 
spirit.     The  subject  is  one  that  has  already  em- 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  325 

ployed  the  pens  of  the  ablest  philologists  in  this 
country,  among  whom  it  is  only  necessary  to  men- 
tion the  names  of  Du  Ponceau,  Pickering,  and 
Gallatin.  Our  author  has  evidently  bestowed 
much  labor  and  thought  on  the  topic.  He  exam- 
ines the  peculiar  structure  of  the  languages,  which, 
though  radically  different,  bear  a  common  resem- 
blance in  their  compounded  and  synthetic  organi- 
zation. He  has  omitted  to  notice  the  singular 
exception  to  the  polysynthetic  formation  of  the 
Indian  languages  presented  by  the  Otomie,  which 
has  afforded  a  Mexican  philologist  so  ingenious  a 
parallel,  in  its  structure,  with  the  Chinese.  Mr. 
Bancroft  concludes  his  review  of  them  by  admit- 
ting the  copiousness  of  their  combinations,  and  by 
inferring  that  this  copiousness  is  no  evidence  of 
care  and  cultivation,  but  the  elementary  form  of 
expression  of  a  rude  and  uncivilized  people;  in 
proof  of  which  he  cites  the  example  of  the  par- 
tially civilized  Indian  in  accommodating  his  idiom 
gradually  to  the  analytic  structure  of  the  Euro- 
pean languages.  May  not  this  be  explained  by 
the  circumstance  that  the  influence  under  which 
he  makes  this,  like  his  other  changes,  is  itself 
European  ?  But  we  pass  to  a  more  popular 
theme,  the  rehgious  faith  of  the  red  man,  whose 
fanciful  superstitions  are  depicted  by  our  author 
with  highly  poetical  coloring: 

"  The  red  man,  unaccustomed  to  generaliza- 
tion, obtained  no  conception  of  an  absolute  sub- 
stance, of  a  self -existent  being,  but  saw  a  divinity 
in  every  power.  Wherever  there  was  being, 
motion,  or  action,  there  to  him  was  a  spirit ;  and,  in 


326  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

a  special  manner,  wherever  there  appeared  singu- 
lar excellence  among  beasts  or  birds,  or  in  the  crea- 
tion, there  to  him  was  the  presence  of  a  divinity. 
When  he  feels  his  pulse  throb  or  his  heart  beat,  he 
knows  that  it  is  a  spirit.  A  god  resides  in  the  flint, 
to  give  forth  the  kindling,  cheering  fire;  a  spirit 
resides  in  the  mountain-cliff;  a  spirit  makes  its 
abode  in  the  cool  recesses  of  the  grottoes  which 
nature  has  adorned ;  a  god  dwells  in  each  '  little 
grass'  that  springs  miraculously  from  the  earth. 
*  The  woods,  the  wilds,  and  the  waters  respond  to 
savage  intelligence;  the  stars  and  the  mountains 
live;  the  river,  and  the  lake,  and  the  waves  have 
a  spirit.^  Every  hidden  agency,  every  mysterious 
influence,  is  personified.  A  god  dwells  in  the  sun, 
and  in  the  moon,  and  in  the  firmament ;  the  spirit 
of  the  morning  reddens  in  the  eastern  sky;  a 
deity  is  present  in  the  ocean  and  in  the  fire;  the 
crag  that  overhangs  the  river  has  its  genius ;  there 
is  a  spirit  to  the  waterfall;  a  household  god 
dwells  in  the  Indian's  wigwam  and  consecrates 
his  home;  spirits  climb  upon  the  forhead  to 
weigh  down  the  eyelids  in  sleep.  Not  the  heavenly 
bodies  only,  the  sky  is  filled  with  spirits  that  minis- 
ter to  man.  To  the  savage,  divinity,  broken  as  it 
were  into  an  infinite  number  of  fragments,  fills  all 
place  and  all  being.  The  idea  of  unity  in  the 
creation  may  exist  contemporaneously,  but  it 
existed  only  in  the  germ,  or  as  a  vague  belief 
derived  from  the  harmony  of  the  universe.  Yet 
faith  in  the  Great  Spirit,  when  once  presented, 
was  promptly  seized  and  appropriated,  and  so 
infused  itself  into  the  hearts  of  remotest  tribes 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  827 

that  it  came  to  be  often  considered  as  a  portion  of 
their  original  faith.  Their  shadowy  aspirations 
and  creeds  assumed,  through  the  reports  of  mis- 
sionaries, a  more  complete  development,  and  a 
religious  system  was  elicited  from  the  pregnant 
but  rude  materials." — Ibid.j,  pp.  285,  286. 

The  following  pictures  of  the  fate  of  the  Indian 
infant,  and  the  shadowy  pleasures  of  the  land  of 
spirits,  have  also  much  tenderness  and  beauty: 

"  The  same  motive  prompted  them  to  bury  with 
the  warrior  his  pipe  and  his  manitou,  his  toma- 
hawk, quiver,  and  bovv^  readj^  bent  for  action,  and 
his  most  splendid  apparel;  to  place  by  his  side 
his  bowl,  his  maize,  and  his  venison,  for  the  long 
journey  to  the  country  of  his  ancestors.  Festivals 
in  honor  of  the  dead  were  also  frequent,  when  a 
part  of  the  food  was  given  to  the  flames,  that  so  it 
might  serve  to  nourish  the  departed.  The  travel- 
ler would  find  in  the  forests  a  dead  body  placed  on 
a  scaffold  erected  upon  piles,  carefully  wrapped 
in  bark  for  its  shroud,  and  attired  in  warmest 
furs.  If  a  mother  lost  her  babe,  she  would  cover 
it  with  bark  and  envelop  it  anxiously  in  the  softest 
beaver-skins;  at  the  burial-place  she  would  put 
by  its  side  its  cradle,  its  beads,  and  its  rattles,  and, 
as  a  last  service  of  maternal  love,  would  draw  milk 
from  her  bosom  in  a  cup  of  bark,  and  burn  it  in 
the  fire,  that  her  infant  might  still  find  nourish- 
ment on  its  solitary  journey  to  the  land  of  shades. 
Yet  the  new-born  babe  would  be  buried,  not,  as 
usual,  on  the  scaffold,  but  by  the  wayside,  so  that 
its  spirit  might  secretly  steal  into  the  bosom  of 
some  passing  matron  and  be  born  again  under 


328  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

happier  auspices.  On  burying  her  daughter,  the 
Chippewa  mother  adds,  not  snow-shoes  and  beads 
and  moccasins  only,  but  (sad  emblem  of  woman's 
lot  in  the  wilderness)  the  carrying-belt  and  the 
paddle.  '  I  know  my  daughter  will  be  restored 
to  me,'  she  once  said,  as  she  clipped  a  lock  of  hair 
as  a  memorial ;  '  by  this  lock  of  hair  I  shall  dis- 
cover her,  for  I  shall  take  it  with  me ;'  alluding  to 
the  day  when  she  too,  with  her  carrying-belt  and 
paddle,  and  the  little  relic  of  her  child,  should  pass 
through  the  grave  to  the  dwelling-place  of  her 
ancestors." 

"  The  faith,  as  well  as  the  sympathies,  of  the 
savage,  descended  also  to  inferior  things.  Of  each 
kind  of  animal  they  say  there  exists  one,  the  source 
and  origin  of  all,  of  a  vast  size,  the  type  and 
original  of  the  whole  class.  From  the  immense 
invisible  beaver  come  all  the  beavers,  by  whatever 
run  of  water  they  are  found;  the  same  is  true  of 
the  elk  and  buffalo,  of  the  eagle  and  robin,  of  the 
meanest  quadruped  of  the  forest,  of  the  smallest 
insect  that  buzzes  in  the  air.  There  lives  for  each 
class  of  animals  this  invisible  vast  type  or  elder 
brother.  Thus  the  savage  established  his  right  to  be 
classed  by  philosophers  in  the  rank  of  Realists,  and 
his  chief  efforts  at  generalization  was  a  reverent 
exercise  of  the  religious  sentiment.  Where  these 
older  brothers  dwell  they  do  not  exactly  know ;  yet 
it  may  be  that  the  giant  manitous  which  are 
brothers  to  beasts  are  hid  beneath  the  waters,  and 
those  of  the  birds  make  their  homes  in  the  blue  sky. 
But  the  Indian  believes  also  of  each  individual 
animal  that  it  possesses  the  mysterious,  the  inde- 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  329 

structible  principle  of  life ;  there  is  not  a  breathing 
thing  but  has  its  shade,  which  never  can  perish. 
Regarding  himself,  in  comparison  with  other  ani- 
mals, but  as  the  fii'st  among  co-ordinate  existence, 
he  respects  the  brute  creation,  and  assigns  to  it, 
as  to  himself,  a  perpetuity  of  being.  '  The  an- 
cients of  these  lands  believed  that  the  warrior, 
when  released  from  life,  renews  the  passions  and 
activity  of  this  world  ;  is  seated  once  more  among 
his  friends;  shares  again  the  joyous  feast;  walks 
through  shadowy  forests,  that  are  ahve  with  the 
spirits  of  birds ;  and  there,  in  his  paradise, 

" '  By    midnight    moons,    o'er    moistening    dews, 
In   vestments    for   the   chase   arrayed. 
The  hunter  still  the  deer  pursues, 

The  hunter   and   the   deer   a   shade.' " 

Ibid.,  pp.   295,   298. 

At  the  close  of  this  chapter  the  historian  grap- 
ples with  the  much-vexed  question  respecting  the 
origin  of  the  aborigines, — that  pons  asinorum 
which  has  called  forth  so  much  sense  and  nonsense 
on  both  sides  of  the  water,  and  will  continue  to  do 
so  as  long  as  a  new  relic  or  unknown  hieroglyphic 
shall  turn  up  to  irritate  the  nerves  of  the  antiquary. 

Mr.  Bancroft  passes  briefly  in  review  the  several 
arguments  adduced  in  favor  of  the  connection 
with  Eastern  Asia.  He  lays  no  stress  on  the 
affinity  of  languages  or  of  customs  and  religious 
notions,  considering  these  as  spontaneous  expres- 
sions of  similar  ideas  and  wants  in  similar  con- 
ditions of  society.  He  attaches  as  little  value  to 
the  resemblance  established  by  Humboldt  between 
the  signs  of  the  Mexican  calendar  and  those  of  the 


330  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

signs  of  the  zodiac  in  Thibet  and  Tartary;  and  as 
for  the  far-famed  Dighton  Rock,  and  the  learned 
lucubrations  thereon,  he  sets  them  down  as  so 
much  moonshine,  pronouncing  the  characters  Al- 
gonquin. The  tumuli — the  great  tumuli  of  the 
West — he  regards  as  the  work  of  no  mortal  hand, 
except  so  far  as  they  have  been  excavated  for  a 
sepulchral  purpose.  He  admits,  however,  vestiges 
of  a  migratory  movement  on  our  continent  from 
the  northeast  to  the  southwest,  shows  very  satis- 
factorily, by  estimating  the  distances  of  the  inter- 
vening islands,  the  practicability  of  a  passage  in 
the  most  ordinary  sea-boat  from  the  Asiatic  to  the 
American  shores  in  the  high  latitudes,  and,  by  a 
comparison  of  the  Indian  and  Mongolian  skulls, 
comes  to  the  conclusion  that  the  two  races  are 
probably  identical  in  origin.  But  the  epoch  of 
their  divergence  he  places  at  so  remote  a  period 
that  the  peculiar  habits,  institutions,  and  culture 
of  the  aborigines  must  be  regarded  as  all  their 
own, — as  indigenous.  This  is  the  outhne  of  his 
theory. 

By  this  hypothesis  he  extricates  the  question 
from  the  embarrassment  caused  by  the  ignorance 
which  the  aborigines  have  manifested  in  the  use  of 
iron  and  milk,  known  to  the  Mongol  hordes,  but 
which  he,  of  course,  supposes  were  not  known  at 
the  time  of  the  migration.  This  is  carrying  the 
exodus  back  to  a  far  period.  But  the  real  objec- 
tion seems  to  be  that  by  thus  rejecting  all  evidence 
of  communication  but  that  founded  on  anatomical 
resemblance  he  has  unnecessarily  narrowed  the 
basis  on  which  it  rests.    The  resemblance  between  a 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  331 

few  specimens  of  Mongolian  and  American  skulls 
is  a  narrow  basis  indeed,  taken  as  the  only  one,  for 
so  momentous  a  theory. 

In  fact,  this  particular  point  of  analogy  does 
not  strike  us  as  by  any  means  the  most  powerful 
of  the  arguments  in  favor  of  a  communication 
with  the  East,  when  we  consider  the  small  number 
of  the  specimens  on  which  it  is  founded,  the  great 
variety  of  formation  in  individuals  of  the  same 
family, — some  of  the  specimens  approacliing  even 
nearer  to  the  Caucasian  than  the  Mongolian, — 
and  the  very  uniform  de\dation  from  the  latter  in 
the  prominence  and  the  greater  angularity  of  the 
features. 

This  connection  with  the  East  derives,  in  our 
judgment,  some  support,  feeble  though  it  be,  from 
affinities  of  language;  but  this  is  a  field  which 
remains  to  be  much  more  fully  explored.  The 
analogy  is  much  more  striking  of  certain  usages 
and  institutions,  particularly  of  a  rehgious  char- 
acter, and,  above  all,  the  mythological  traditions 
which  those  who  have  had  occasion  to  look  into  the 
Aztec  antiquities  cannot  fail  to  be  struck  with. 
This  resemblance  is  oftentimes  in  matters  so 
purely  arbitrary  that  it  can  hardly  be  regarded  as 
founded  in  the  constitution  of  man,  so  very  exact 
that  it  can  scarcely  be  considered  as  accidental. 
We  give  up  the  Dighton  Rock,  that  rock  of  of- 
fence to  so  many  antiquaries,  who  may  read  in  it 
the  handwriting  of  the  Phoenicians,  Egyptians,  or 
Scandinavians,  quite  as  well  as  anything  else. 
Indeed,  the  various  facsimiles  of  it,  made  for  the 
benefit  of  the  learned,  are  so  different  from  one 


832  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

another  that,  Hke  Sir  Hudibras,  one  may  find  in  it 

"  A  leash  of  languages  at  once." 

We  are  agreed  with  our  author  that  it  is  very  good 
Algonquin.  But  the  zodiac,  the  Tartar  zodiac, 
which  M.  de  Humboldt  has  so  well  shown  to 
resemble  in  its  terms  those  of  the  Aztec  calendar, 
we  cannot  so  easily  surrender.  The  striking  coin- 
cidence established  by  his  investigations  between 
the  astronomical  signs  of  the  two  nations — in  a 
similar  corresponding  series,  moreover,  although 
appHed  to  different  uses — is,  in  our  opinion,  one 
of  the  most  powerful  arguments  yet  adduced  for 
the  affinity  of  the  two  races.  Nor  is  Mr.  Bancroft 
wholly  right  in  supposing  that  the  Asiatic  hiero- 
glyphics referred  only  to  the  zodiac.  Like  the 
Mexican,  they  also  presided  over  the  years,  days, 
and  even  hours.  The  strength  of  evidence,  founded 
on  numerous  analogies,  cannot  be  shown  without 
going  into  details,  for  which  there  is  scarce  room 
in  the  compass  of  a  separate  article,  much  less  in 
the  heel  of  one.  Whichever  way  we  turn,  the 
subject  is  full  of  perplexity.  It  is  the  sphinx's 
riddle,  and  the  (Edipus  must  be  called  from  the 
grave  who  is  to  solve  it. 

In  closing  our  remarks,  we  must  express  our 
satisfaction  that  the  favorable  notice  we  took  of 
Mr.  Bancroft's  labors  on  his  first  appearance  has 
been  fully  ratified  by  his  countrymen,  and  that 
his  Colonial  History  establishes  his  title  to  a  place 
among  the  great  historical  writers  of  the  age.  The 
reader  will  find  the  pages  of  the  present  volume 
filled  with  matter  not  less  interesting  and  impor- 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  333 

tant  than  the  preceding.  He  will  meet  with  the 
same  brilliant  and  daring  style,  the  same  pictu- 
resque sketches  of  character  and  incident,  the  same 
acute  reasoning  and  compass  of  erudition. 

In  the  delineation  of  events  Mr.  Bancroft  has 
been  guided  by  the  spirit  of  historic  faith.  Not 
that  it  would  be  difficult  to  discern  the  color  of  his 
politics ;  nor,  indeed,  would  it  be  possible  for  any- 
one strongly  pledged  to  any  set  of  principles, 
whether  in  politics  or  religion,  to  disguise  them 
in  the  discussion  of  abstract  topics,  without  being 
false  to  himself  and  giving  a  false  tone  to  the 
picture ;  but,  while  he  is  true  to  himself,  he  has  an 
equally  imperative  duty  to  perform, — to  be  true  to 
others,  to  those  on  whose  characters  and  conduct 
he  sits  in  judgment  as  a  historian.  No  pet  theory 
nor  party  predilections  can  justify  him  in  swerving 
one  hair's-breadth  from  truth  in  his  delineation  of 
the  mighty  dead,  whose  portraits  he  is  exhibiting 
to  us  on  the  canvas  of  history. 

Whenever  religion  is  introduced,  Mr.  Bancroft 
has  shown  a  commendable  spirit  of  liberality. 
Catholics  and  Calvinists,  Jesuits,  Quakers,  and 
Church-of -England  men,  are  all  judged  accord- 
ing to  their  deeds,  and  not  their  speculative  tenets ; 
and  even  in  the  latter  particular  he  generally  con- 
trives to  find  something  deserving  of  admiration, 
some  commendable  doctrine  or  aspiration  in  most 
of  them.  And  what  Christian  sect — we  might 
add,  what  sect  of  any  denomination — is  there 
which  has  not  some  beauty  of  doctrine  to  admire? 
Religion  is  the  homage  of  man  to  his  Creator.  The 
forms  in  which  it  is  expressed  are  infinitely  va- 


334  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

rious;  but  they  flow  from  the  same  source,  are 
directed  to  the  same  end,  and  all  claim  from  the 
historian  the  benefit  of  toleration. 

What  Mr.  Bancroft  has  done  for  the  Colonial 
history  is,  after  all,  but  preparation  for  a  richer 
theme,  the  history  of  the  War  of  Independence; 
a  subject  which  finds  its  origin  in  the  remote 
past,  its  results  in  the  infinite  future ;  which  finds 
a  central  point  of  unity  in  the  ennobling  principle 
of  independence,  that  gives  dignity  and  grandeur 
to  the  most  petty  details  of  the  conflict,  and  which 
has  its  foreground  occupied  by  a  single  character, 
to  which  all  others  converge  as  to  a  centre, — the 
character  of  Washington,  in  war,  in  peace,  and  in 
private  life  the  most  sublime  on  historical  record. 
Happy  the  writer  who  shall  exhibit  this  theme 
worthily  to  the  eyes  of  his  countrymen ! 

The  subject,  it  is  understood,  is  to  engage  the 
attention,  also,  of  Mr.  Sparks,  whose  honorable 
labors  have  already  associated  his  name  imperish- 
ably  with  our  Revolutionary  period.  Let  it  not  be 
feared  that  there  is  not  compass  enough  in  the 
subject  for  two  minds  so  gifted.  The  field  is  too 
rich  to  be  exhausted  by  a  single  crop,  and  will 
yield  fresh  laurels  to  the  skilful  hand  that  shall  toil 
for  them.  The  labors  of  Hume  did  not  supersede 
those  of  Lingard,  or  Turner,  or  Mackintosh,  or 
Hallam.  The  history  of  the  English  Revolution 
has  called  forth,  in  our  own  time,  the  admirable 
essays  of  Mackintosh  and  Guizot;  and  the  palm 
of  excellence,  after  the  libraries  that  have  been 
written  on  the  French  Revolution,  has  just  been 
assigned  to  the  dissimilar  histories  of  Mignet  and 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  335 

Thiers.  The  points  of  view  under  which  a  thing 
may  be  contemplated  are  as  diversified  as  mind 
itself.  The  most  honest  inquirers  after  truth  rare- 
ly come  to  precisely  the  same  results,  such  is 
the  influence  of  education,  prejudice,  principle. 
Truth,  indeed,  is  single,  but  opinions  are  infinitely 
various,  and  it  is  only  by  comparing  these  opinions 
together  that  we  can  hope  to  ascertain  what  is 
truth. 


MADAME    CALDERON'S    LIFE    IN 
MEXICO  * 

(January,   1843) 

IN  the  present  age  of  high  literary  activity,  travel- 
lers make  not  the  least  importunate  demands 
on  pubhc  attention,  and  their  lucubrations,  under 
whatever  name,  —  Rambles,  Notices,  Incidents, 
Pencilhngs, — are  nearly  as  important  a  staple  for 
the  "  trade  "  as  novels  and  romances.  A  book  of 
travels,  formerly,  was  a  very  serious  affair.  The 
traveller  set  out  on  his  distant  journey  with  many 
a  solemn  preparation,  made  his  will,  and  bade 
adieu  to  his  friends  like  one  who  might  not  again 
return.  If  he  did  return,  the  results  were  em- 
bodied in  a  respectable  folio,  or  at  least  quarto, 
well  garnished  with  cuts,  and  done  up  in  a  solid 
form,  which  argued  that  it  was  no  fugitive  publi- 
cation, but  destined  for  posterity. 

All  this  is  changed.  The  voyager  nowadays 
leaves  home  with  as  little  ceremony  and  leave- 
taking  as  if  it  were  for  a  morning's  drive.  He 
steps  into  the  bark  that  is  to  carry  him  across  thou- 
sands of  miles  of  ocean  with  the  moral  certainty  of 
returning  in  a  fixed  week,  almost  at  a  particular 
day.  Parties  of  gentlemen  and  ladies  go  whizzing 
along  in  their  steamships  over  the  track  which 

* "  Life  in   Mexico,   during   a   Residence  of  Two   Years   in   that 

Country.     By    Madame    C de    la    B ."     Boston:    Little    & 

Brown.    Two  volumes,   12mo. 

336 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  337 

cost  so  many  weary  days  to  the  Argonauts  of 
old,  and  run  over  the  choicest  scenes  of  classic 
antiquity,  scattered  through  Europe,  Asia,  and 
Africa,  in  less  time  than  it  formerly  took  to  go 
from  one  end  of  the  British  Isles  to  the  other.  The 
Cape  of  Good  Hope,  so  long  the  great  stumbhng- 
block  to  the  navigators  of  Europe,  is  doubled,  or 
the  Red  Sea  coasted,  in  the  same  way,  by  the 
fashionable  tourist — who  glides  along  the  shores 
of  Arabia,  Persia,  Afghanistan,  Bombay,  and 
Hindostan,  farther  than  the  farthest  limits  of 
Alexander's  conquests — before  tlie  last  leaves  of 
the  last  new  novel  which  he  has  taken  by  the  way 
are  fairly  cut.  The  facilities  of  communication 
have,  in  fact,  so  abridged  distances  that  geogra- 
phy, as  we  have  hitherto  studied  it,  may  be  said  to 
be  entirely  reformed.  Instead  of  leagues,  we  now 
compute  by  hours,  and  we  find  ourselves  next-door 
neighbors  to  those  whom  we  had  looked  upon  as 
at  the  antipodes. 

The  consequence  of  these  improvements  in  the 
means  of  intercourse  is,  that  all  the  world  goes 
abroad,  or,  at  least,  one  half  is  turned  upon  the 
other.  Nations  are  so  mixed  up  by  this  process 
that  they  are  in  some  danger  of  losing  their  idio- 
syncrasy; and  the  Egyptian  and  the  Turk,  though 
they  still  cling  to  their  religion,  are  becoming 
European  in  their  notions  and  habits  more  and 
more  every  day. 

The  taste  for  pilgrimage,  however,  it  must  be 
owned,  does  not  stop  with  the  countries  where  it 
can  be  carried  on  with  such  increased  facility.  It 
has  begotten  a  nobler  spirit  of  adventure,  some- 

Vol.  I.— 22 


338  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

thing  akin  to  what  existed  in  the  fifteenth  century, 
when  the  world  was  new  or  newly  discovering,  and 
a  navigator  who  did  not  take  in  sail,  like  the 
cautious  seamen  of  Knickerbocker,  might  run 
down  some  strange  continent  in  the  dark;  for  in 
these  times  of  dandy  tourists  and  travel-mongers 
the  boldest  achievements,  that  have  hitherto  defied 
the  most  adventurous  spirits,  have  been  per- 
formed: the  Himalaya  Mountains  have  been 
scaled,  the  Niger  ascended,  the  burning  heart  of 
Africa  penetrated,  the  icy  Arctic  and  Antarctic 
explored,  and  the  mysterious  monuments  of  the 
semi-civilized  races  of  Central  America  have  been 
thrown  open  to  the  public  gaze.  It  is  certain  that 
this  is  a  high-pressure  age,  and  every  department 
of  science  and  letters,  physical  and  mental,  feels 
its  stimulating  influence. 

No  nation,  on  the  whole,  has  contributed  so 
largely  to  these  itinerant  expeditions  as  the  Eng- 
lish. Uneasy,  it  would  seem,  at  being  cooped  up  in 
their  little  isle,  they  sally  forth  in  all  directions, 
swarming  over  the  cultivated  and  luxurious  coun- 
tries of  the  neighboring  continent,  or  sending  out 
stragglers  on  other  more  distant  and  formidable 
missions.  Whether  it  be  that  their  soaring  spirits 
are  impatient  of  the  narrow  quarters  which  nature 
has  assigned  them,  or  that  there  exists  a  super- 
numerary class  of  idlers,  who,  wearied  with  the 
monotony  of  home  and  the  same  dull  round  of 
dissipation,  seek  excitement  in  strange  scenes  and 
adventures;  or  whether  they  go  abroad  for  the 
sunshine,  of  which  they  have  heard  so  much  but 
seen  so  little, — ^whatever  be  the  cause,  they  furnish 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  339 

a  far  greater  number  of  tourists  than  all  the  world 
besides.  We  Americans,  indeed,  may  compete 
with  them  in  mere  locomotion,  for  our  familiarity 
with  magnificent  distances  at  home  makes  us  still 
more  indifferent  to  them  abroad ;  but  this  locomo- 
tion is  generally  in  the  way  of  business,  and  the 
result  is  rarely  shown  in  a  book,  unless,  indeed,  it 
be  the  leger. 

Yet  John  Bull  is,  on  many  accounts,  less  fitted 
than  most  of  his  neighbors  for  the  duties  of  a 
traveller.  However  warm  and  hospitable  in  his 
own  home,  he  has  a  cold  reserve  in  his  exterior,  a 
certain  chilling  atmosphere,  which  he  carries  along 
with  him,  that  freezes  up  the  sympathies  of  stran- 
gers, and  which  is  only  to  be  completely  thawed 
by  long  and  intimate  acquaintance.  But  the  trav- 
eller has  no  time  for  intimate  acquaintances.  He 
must  go  forward,  and  trust  to  his  first  impressions, 
for  they  will  also  be  his  last.  Unluckily,  it  rarely 
falls  out  that  the  first  impressions  of  honest  John 
are  very  favorable.  There  is  too  much  pride,  not 
to  say  hauteur  J  in  his  composition,  which,  with  the 
best  intentions  in  the  world,  will  show  itself  in  a 
way  not  particularly  flattering  to  those  who  come 
in  contact  with  him.  He  goes  through  a  strange 
nation,  treading  on  all  their  little  irritable  preju- 
dices, shocking  their  self-love  and  harmless  vani- 
ties,— in  short,  going  against  the  grain,  and  rough- 
ing up  every  thing  by  taking  it  the  wrong  way. 
Thus  he  di-aws  out  the  bad  humors  of  the  people 
among  whom  he  moves,  sees  them  in  their  most 
unamiable  and  by  no  means  natural  aspect, — in 
short,  looks  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  tapestry. 


340  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

What  wonder  if  his  notions  are  somewhat  awry 
as  to  what  he  sees?  There  are,  it  is  true,  distin- 
guished exceptions  to  all  this, — English  travellers 
who  cover  the  warm  heart — as  warm  as  it  is 
generally  true  and  manly — under  a  kind  and  some- 
times cordial  manner ;  but  they  are  the  exceptions. 
The  Englishman  undoubtedly  appears  best  on  his 
own  soil,  where  his  national  predilections  and  prej- 
udices, or,  at  least,  the  intimation  of  them,  are 
somewhat  mitigated  in  deference  to  his  guest. 

Another  source  of  the  disqualification  of  John 
Bull  as  a  calm  and  philosophic  traveller  is  the  man- 
ner in  which  he  has  been  educated  at  home ;  the  soft 
luxuries  by  which  he  has  been  surrounded  from  his 
cradle  have  made  luxuries  necessaries,  and,  accus- 
tomed to  perceive  aU  the  machinery  of  life  glide 
along  as  noiselessly  and  as  swiftly  as  the  foot  of 
Time  itself,  he  becomes  morbidly  sensitive  to  every 
temporary  jar  or  derangement  in  the  working 
of  it.  In  no  country  since  the  world  was  made 
have  all  the  appliances  for  mere  physical  and, 
we  may  add,  intellectual  indulgence  been  carried  to 
such  perfection  as  in  this  little  island  nucleus  of 
civilization.  Nowhere  can  a  man  get  such  returns 
for  his  outlay.  The  whole  organization  of  society 
is  arranged  so  as  to  minister  to  the  comforts  of  the 
wealthy;  and  an  Englishman,  with  the  golden 
talisman  in  his  pocket,  can  bring  about  him  genii 
to  do  his  bidding,  and  transport  himself  over  dis- 
tances with  a  thought,  almost  as  easily  as  if  he 
were  the  possessor  of  Aladdin's  magic  lamp  and 
the  fairy  carpet  of  the  Arabian  Tales. 

When  he  journeys  over  his  little  island,  his  com- 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  341 

forts  and  luxuries  cling  as  close  to  him  as  round 
his  own  fireside.  He  rolls  over  roads  as  smooth 
and  well-beaten  as  those  in  his  own  park ;  is  swept 
onward  by  sleek  and  well-groomed  horses,  in  a 
carriage  as  soft  and  elastic,  and  quite  as  showy,  as 
his  own  equipage;  puts  up  at  inns  that  may  vie 
with  his  own  castle  in  their  comforts  and  accom- 
modations, and  is  received  by  crowds  of  obsequious 
servants,  more  solicitous,  probably,  even  than  his 
own  to  win  his  golden  smiles.  In  short,  wherever 
he  goes,  he  may  be  said  to  carry  with  him  his  castle, 
park,  equipage,  establishment.  The  whole  are  in 
movement  together.  He  changes  place,  indeed, 
but  changes  nothing  else.  For  travelling  as  it 
occurs  in  other  lands, — hard  roads,  harder  beds, 
and  hardest  fare, — he  knows  no  more  of  it  than  if 
he  had  been  passing  from  one  wing  of  his  castle 
to  the  other. 

All  this,  it  must  be  admitted,  is  rather  an  indif- 
ferent preparation  for  a  tour  on  the  Continent. 
Of  what  avail  is  it  that  Paris  is  the  most  elegant 
capital,  France  the  most  enlightened  country  on 
the  European  terra  firma,  if  one  cannot  walk  in 
the  streets  without  the  risk  of  being  run  over  for 
want  of  a  trottoir,  nor  move  on  the  roads  without 
being  half  smothered  in  a  lumbering  vehicle, 
dragged  by  ropes  at  the  rate  of  five  miles  an  hour? 
Of  what  account  are  the  fine  music  and  paintings, 
the  architecture  and  art,  of  Italy,  when  one  must 
shiver  by  day  for  want  of  carpets  and  sea-coal 
fires,  and  be  thrown  into  a  fever  at  night  by  the 
active  vexations  of  a  still  more  tormenting  kind? 
The  galled  equestrian  might  as  well  be  expected 


342  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

to  feel  nothing  but  raptures  and  ravishment  at  the 
fine  scenery  through  which  he  is  riding.  It  is  prob- 
able he  will  think  much  more  of  his  own  petty 
hurts  than  of  the  beauties  of  nature.  A  travelling 
John  Bull,  if  his  skin  is  not  oif ,  is  at  least  so  thin- 
skinned  that  it  is  next  door  to  being  so. 

If  the  European  neighborhood  affords  so  many 
means  of  annoyance  to  the  British  traveller,  they 
are  incalculably  multiplied  on  this  side  of  the  water, 
and  that,  too,  under  circumstances  which  dispose 
him  still  less  to  charity  in  his  criticisms  and  con- 
structions. On  the  Continent  he  feels  he  is  among 
strange  races,  born  and  bred  under  different  relig- 
ious and  political  institutions,  and,  above  all, 
speaking  different  languages.  He  does  not  neces- 
sarily, therefore,  measure  them  by  his  peculiar 
standard,  but  allows  them  one  of  their  own.  The 
dissimilarity  is  so  great  in  all  the  main  features  of 
national  polity  and  society  that  it  is  hard  to  insti- 
tute a  comparison.  Whatever  be  his  contempt  for 
the  want  of  progress  and  perfection  in  the  science 
of  living,  he  comes  to  regard  them  as  a  distinct  race, 
amenable  to  different  laws,  and  therefore  licensed 
to  indulge  in  different  usages,  to  a  certain  ex- 
tent, from  his  own.  If  a  man  travels  in  China,  he 
makes  up  his  mind  to  chopsticks.  If  he  should 
go  to  the  moon,  he  would  not  be  scandalized  by  see- 
ing people  walk  with  their  heads  under  their  arms. 
He  has  embarked  on  a  different  planet.  It  is  only 
in  things  which  run  parallel  to  those  in  his  own 
country  that  a  comparison  can  be  instituted,  and 
charity  too  often  fails  where  criticism  begins. 

Unhappily,  in  America  the  Englishman  finds 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  343 

these   points    of   comparison   forced   on   him   at 
every  step.  He  lands  among  a  people  speaking  the 
same  language,  professing  the  same  rehgion,  drink- 
ing at  the  same  fountains  of  literature,  trained 
in  the  same  occupations  of  active  life.    The  towns 
are  built  on  much  the  same  model  with  those  in 
his  own  land.     The  brick  houses,  the  streets,  the 
"  sidewalks,"   the   in-door    arrangements,    all,    in 
short,  are  near  enough  on  the  same  pattern  to 
provoke  a  comparison.    Alas  for  the  comparison! 
The  cities  sink  at  once  into  mere  provincial  towns, 
the  language  degenerates  into  a  provincial  patois, 
the  manners,  the  fashions,  down  to  the  cut  of  the 
clothes,    and   the    equipages,    all    are    provincial. 
The  people,  the  whole  nation — as  independent  as 
any,  certainly,  if  not,  as  our  orators  fondly  des- 
cant, the  best  and  most  enlightened  upon  earth 
— dwindle  into  a  mere  British  colony.    The  travel- 
ler does  not  seem  to  understand  that  he  is  treading 
the  soil  of  the  New  World,  where  every  thing  is 
new,  where  antiquity  dates  but  from  yesterday, 
where  the  present  and  the  future  are  all,  and  the 
past  nothing,  where  hope  is  the  watchword,  and 
"  Go  ahead!"  the  principle  of  action.    He  does  not 
comprehend  that  when  he  sets  foot  on  such  a  land 
he  is  no  longer  to  look  for  old  hereditary  land- 
marks, old  time-honored  monuments  and  institu- 
tions, old  families  that  have  vegetated  on  the  same 
soil  since  the  Conquest.    He  must  be  content  to 
part  with  the  order  and  something  of  the  decorum 
incident  to  an  old  community,  where  the  ranks  are 
all  precisely  and  punctiliously  defined,  where  the 
power  is  deposited  by  prescriptive  right  in  certain 


344  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

privileged  hands,  and  where  the  great  mass  have 
the  careful  obsequiousness  of  dependants,  looking 
for  the  crumbs  that  fall. 

He  is  now  among  a  new  people,  where  every 
thing  is  in  movement,  all  struggling  to  get  for- 
ward, and  where,  though  many  go  adrift  in  their 
wild  spirit  of  adventure,  and  a  temporary  check 
may  be  sometimes  felt  by  all,  the  great  mass  still 
advances.  He  is  landed  on  a  hemisphere  where 
fortunes  are  to  be  made,  and  men  are  employed  in 
getting,  not  in  spending, — a  difference  which  ex- 
plains so  many  of  the  discrepancies  between  the 
structure  of  our  own  society  and  habits  and  those 
of  the  Old  World.  To  know  how  to  spend  is  itself 
a  science ;  and  the  science  of  spending  and  that  of 
getting  are  rarely  held  by  the  same  hand. 

In  such  a  state  of  things,  the  whole  arrange- 
ment of  society,  notwithstanding  the  apparent  re- 
semblance to  that  in  his  own  country,  and  its  real 
resemblance  in  minor  points,  is  reversed.  The  rich 
proprietor,  who  does  nothing  but  fatten  on  his 
rents,  is  no  longer  at  the  head  of  the  scale,  as  in 
the  Old  World.  The  man  of  enterprise  takes  the 
lead  in  a  bustling  conmiunity,  where  action  and 
progress,  or  at  least  change,  are  the  very  conditions 
of  existence.  The  upper  classes — if  the  term  can 
be  used  in  a  complete  democracy — have  not  the 
luxurious  finish  and  accommodations  to  be  found 
in  the  other  hemisphere.  The  humbler  classes 
have  not  the  poverty-stricken,  cringing  spirit  of 
hopeless  inferiority.  The  pillar  of  society,  if  it 
want  the  Corinthian  capital,  wants  also  the  heavy 
and  superfluous  base.    Every  man  not  only  pro- 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  345 

fesses  to  be,  but  is  practically,  on  a  footing  of 
equality  with  his  neighbor.  The  traveller  must 
not  expect  to  meet  here  the  deference,  or  even  the 
courtesies,  which  grow  out  of  distinction  of  castes. 
This  is  an  awkward  dilemma  for  one  whose  nerves 
have  never  been  jarred  by  contact  with  the  pro- 
fane; who  has  never  been  tossed  about  in  the 
rough-and-tumble  of  humanity.  It  is  little  to  him 
that  the  poorest  child  in  the  community  learns  how 
to  read  and  write ;  that  the  poorest  man  can  have — 
what  Henry  the  Fourth  so  good-naturedly  wished 
for  the  humblest  of  his  subjects — a  fowl  in  his 
pot  every  day  for  his  dinner ;  that  no  one  is  so  low 
but  that  he  may  aspire  to  all  the  rights  of  his 
fellow-men  and  find  an  open  theatre  on  which  to 
display  his  own  peculiar  talents. 

As  the  tourist  strikes  into  the  interior,  difficulties 
of  all  sorts  multiply,  incident  to  a  raw  and  un- 
formed country.  The  comparison  with  the  high 
civilization  at  home  becomes  more  and  more  un- 
favorable, as  he  is  made  to  feel  that  in  this  land  of 
promise  it  must  be  long  before  promise  can  become 
the  performance  of  the  Old  World.  And  yet,  if 
he  would  look  beyond  the  surface,  he  would  see 
that  much  here  too  has  been  performed,  however 
much  may  be  wanting.  He  would  see  lands  over 
which  the  wild  Indian  roamed  as  a  hunting- 
ground,  teeming  with  harvests  for  the  consump- 
tion of  millions  at  home  and  abroad ;  forests,  which 
have  shot  up,  ripened,  and  decayed  on  the  same 
spot  ever  since  the  creation,  now  swept  away  to 
make  room  for  towns  and  villages  thronged  with  an 
industrious  population;   rivers,  which  rolled  on  in 


346  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

their  solitudes,  undisturbed  except  by  the  wander- 
ing bark  of  the  savage,  now  broken  and  dimpled 
by  hundreds  of  steamboats,  freighted  with  the  rich 
tribute  of  a  country  rescued  from  the  wilderness. 
He  would  not  expect  to  meet  the  careful  courtesies 
of  poHshed  society  in  the  pioneers  of  civilization, 
whose  mission  has  been  to  recover  the  great 
continent  from  the  bear  and  the  buffalo.  He 
would  have  some  charity  for  their  ignorance  of 
the  latest  fashions  of  Bond  Street,  and  their  de- 
parture, sometimes,  even  from  what,  in  the  old 
country,  is  considered  as  the  decorum  and,  it  may 
be,  decencies  of  life.  But  not  so :  his  heart  turns 
back  to  his  own  land,  and  closes  against  the  rude 
scenes  around  him;  for  he  finds  here  none  of  the 
soft  graces  of  cultivation,  or  the  hallowed  memo- 
rials of  an  early  civilization;  no  gray,  weather- 
beaten  cathedrals,  telling  of  the  Normans;  no 
Gothic  churches  in  their  groves  of  venerable  oaks ; 
no  moss-covered  cemeteries,  in  which  the  dust  of 
his  fathers  has  been  gathered  since  the  time  of 
the  Plantagenets ;  no  rural  cottages,  half  smoth- 
ered with  roses  and  honeysuckles,  intimating 
that  even  in  the  most  humble  abodes  the  taste  for 
the  beautiful  has  found  its  way;  no  trim  gardens, 
and  fields  blossoming  with  hawthorn  hedges  and 
miniature  culture ;  no  ring  fences,  enclosing  well- 
shaven  lawns,  woods  so  disposed  as  to  form  a 
picture  of  themselves,  bright  threads  of  silvery 
water,  and  sparkling  fountains.  All  these  are 
wanting,  and  his  eyes  turn  with  disgust  from 
the  wild  and  rugged  features  of  nature,  and  all 
her  rough  accompaniments, — from  man  almost  as 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  347 

wild ;  and  his  heart  sickens  as  he  thinks  of  his  own 
land  and  all  its  scenes  of  beauty.  He  thinks  not 
of  the  poor  who  leave  that  land  for  want  of  bread 
and  find  in  this  a  kindly  welcome  and  the  means  of 
independence  and  advancement  which  their  own 
denies  them. 

He  goes  on,  if  he  be  a  splenetic  Sindbad,  dis- 
charging his  sour  bile  on  everybody  that  he  comes 
in  contact  with,  thus  producing  an  amiable  ripple 
in  the  current  as  he  proceeds,  that  adds  marvel- 
lously, no  doubt,  to  his  own  quiet  and  personal 
comfort.  If  he  have  a  true  merry  vein  and  hearty 
good  nature,  he  gets  on,  laughing  sometimes  in  his 
sleeve  at  others,  and  cracking  his  jokes  on  the  un- 
lucky pate  of  Brother  Jonathan,  who,  if  he  is  not 
very  silly, — which  he  very  often  is, — laughs  too, 
and  joins  in  the  jest,  though  it  may  be  somewhat  at 
his  own  expense.  It  matters  little  whether  the  tour- 
ist be  Whig  or  Tory  in  his  own  land ;  if  the  latter, 
he  returns,  probably,  ten  times  the  Conservative 
that  he  was  when  he  left  it.  If  Whig,  or  even  Radi- 
cal, it  matters  not;  his  loyalty  waxes  warmer  and 
warmer  with  every  step  of  his  progress  among  the 
republicans;  and  he  finds  that  practical  democ- 
racy, shouldering  and  elbowing  its  neighbors  as 
it  "  goes  ahead,"  is  no  more  like  the  democracy 
which  he  has  been  accustomed  to  admire  in  theory, 
than  the  real  machinery,  with  its  smell,  smoke,  and 
clatter,  under  full  operation,  is  like  the  pretty  toy 
which  he  sees  as  a  model  in  the  Patent  Office  at 
Washington. 

There  seems  to  be  no  people  better  constituted 
for  travellers,  at  least  for  recording  their  travel- 


348  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

ling  experiences,  than  the  French.  There  is  a  mix- 
ture of  frivoHty  and  philosophy  in  their  composi- 
tion which  is  admirably  suited  to  the  exigencies  of 
their  situation.  They  mingle  readily  with  all 
classes  and  races,  discarding  for  the  time  their  own 
nationality, — at  least  their  national  antipathies. 
Their  pleasant  vanity  fills  them  with  the  desire  of 
pleasing  others,  which  most  kindly  reacts  by  their 
being  themselves  pleased : 

"  Pleased  with  himself,  whom  all  the  world  can  please." 

The  Frenchman  can  even  so  far  accommodate 
himself  to  habits  alien  to  his  own,  that  he  can  toler- 
ate those  of  the  savages  themselves,  and  enter  into 
a  sort  of  fellowship  with  them,  without  either 
party  altogether  discarding  his  national  tastes 
and  propensities.  It  is  Chateaubriand,  if  we 
are  not  mistaken,  who  relates  that,  wandering 
in  the  solitudes  of  the  American  wilderness,  his 
ears  were  most  unexpectedly  saluted  by  the  sounds 
of  a  violin.  He  had  little  doubt  that  one  of  his  own 
countrymen  must  be  at  hand;  and  in  a  wretched 
enclosure  he  found  one  of  them,  sure  enough, 
teaching  Messieurs  les  sauvages  to  dance.  It  is 
certain  that  this  spirit  of  accommodation  to  the 
wild  habits  of  their  copper-colored  friends  gave 
the  French  traders  and  missionaries  formerly  an 
ascendency  over  the  aborigines  which  was  never 
obtained  by  any  other  of  the  white  men. 

The  most  comprehensive  and  truly  philosophic 
work  on  the  genius  and  institutions  of  this  country, 
the  best  exposition  of  its  social  phenomena,  its 
present  condition,  and  probable  future,  are  to  be 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  349 

found  in  the  pages  of  a  Frenchman.  It  is  in  the 
French  language,  too,  that  by  far  the  greatest 
work  has  been  produced  on  the  great  Southern 
portion  of  our  continent,  once  comprehended 
under  New  Spain. 

To  write  a  book  of  travels  seems  to  most  people 
to  require  as  little  preliminary  preparation  as  to 
write  a  letter.  One  has  only  to  jump  into  a  coach, 
embark  on  board  a  steamboat,  minute  down  his 
flying  experiences  and  hair-breadth  escapes,  the 
aspect  of  the  country  as  seen  from  the  interior  of 
a  crowded  diligence  or  a  vanishing  rail-car,  note 
the  charges  of  the  landlords  and  the  quality  of  the 
fare,  a  dinner  or  two  at  the  minister's,  the  last  new 
play  or  opera  at  the  theatre,  and  the  affair  is  done. 
It  is  very  easy  to  do  this,  certainly;  very  easy  to 
make  a  bad  book  of  travels,  but  by  no  means  easy 
to  make  a  good  one.  This  requires  as  many  and 
various  qualifications  as  to  make  any  other  good 
book, — qualifications  which  must  vary  with  the 
character  of  the  country  one  is  to  visit.  Thus,  for 
instance,  it  requires  a  very  different  preparation 
and  stock  of  accomplishments  to  make  the  tour  of 
Italy,  its  studios  and  its  galleries  of  art,  or  of 
Egypt,  with  its  immortal  pyramids  and  mighty 
relics  of  a  primeval  age,  the  great  cemetery  of 
antiquity,  from  what  it  does  to  travel  understand- 
ingly  in  our  own  land,  a  new  creation,  as  it  were, 
without  monuments,  without  arts,  where  the  only 
study  of  the  traveller — the  noblest  of  all  studies, 
it  is  true — is  man.  The  inattention  to  this  differ- 
ence of  preparation  demanded  by  different  places 
has  led  many  a  clever  writer  to  make  a  very 


350  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

worthless  book,  which  would  have  been  remedied 
had  he  consulted  his  own  qualifications  instead  of 
taking  the  casual  direction  of  the  first  steamboat 
or  mail-coach  that  lay  in  his  way. 

There  is  no  country  more  difficult  to  discuss  in 
all  its  multiform  aspects  than  Mexico,  or,  rather, 
the  wild  region  once  comprehended  under  the 
name  of  New  Spain.  Its  various  climates,  bring- 
ing to  perfection  the  vegetable  products  of  the 
most  distant  latitudes ;  its  astonishing  f  ruitf ulness 
in  its  lower  regions,  and  its  curse  of  barrenness 
over  many  a  broad  acre  of  its  plateau;  its  inex- 
haustible mines,  that  have  flooded  the  Old  World 
with  an  ocean  of  silver,  such  as  Columbus  in  his 
wildest  visions  never  dreamed  of, — and,  unhap- 
pily, by  a  hard  mischance,  never  lived  to  realize 
himself;  its  picturesque  landscape,  where  the 
volcanic  fire  gleams  amid  wastes  of  eternal  snow, 
and  a  few  hours  carry  the  traveller  from  the  hot 
regions  of  the  lemon  and  the  cocoa  to  the  wintry 
solitudes  of  the  mountain  fir;  its  motley  popula- 
tion, made  up  of  Indians,  old  Spaniards,  modern 
Mexicans,  mestizos,  mulattoes,  and  zambos;  its 
cities  built  in  the  clouds;  its  lakes  of  salt  water, 
hundreds  of  miles  from  the  ocean ;  its  people,  with 
their  wild  and  variegated  costume,  in  keeping, 
as  we  may  say,  with  its  extraordinary  scenery ;  its 
stately  palaces,  half  furnished,  where  services  of 
gold  and  silver  plate  load  the  tables  in  rooms  with- 
out a  carpet,  while  the  red  dust  of  the  bricks  soils 
the  diamond-sprinkled  robes  of  the  dancer;  the 
costly  attire  of  its  higher  classes,  blazing  with 
pearls  and  jewels;  the  tawdry  magnificence  of  its 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  351 

equipages,  saddles  inlaid  with  gold,  bits  and  stir- 
rups of  massive  silver,  all  executed  in  the  clumsiest 
style  of  workmanship ;  its  lower  classes, — the  men 
with  their  jackets  glittering  with  silver  buttons, 
and  rolls  of  silver  tinsel  round  their  caps;  the 
women  with  petticoats  fringed  with  lace,  and  white 
satin  shoes  on  feet  unprotected  by  a  stocking;  its 
high-born  fair  ones  crowding  to  the  cockpit  and 
solacing  themselves  with  the  fumes  of  a  cigar;  its 
churches  and  convents,  in  which  all  those  sombre 
rules  of  monastic  life  are  maintained  in  their  prim- 
itive rigor  which  have  died  away  before  the  liberal 
spirit  of  the  age  on  the  other  side  of  the  water ;  its 
swarms  of  leperos^  the  lazzaroni  of  the  land;  its 
hordes  of  almost  legalized  banditti,  who  stalk 
openly  in  the  streets  and  render  the  presence  of  an 
armed  escort  necessary  to  secure  a  safe  drive  into 
the  environs  of  the  capital ;  its  whole  structure  of 
society,  in  which  a  republican  form  is  thrown  over 
institutions  as  aristocratic  and  castes  as  nicely 
defined  as  in  any  monarchy  of  Europe;  in  short, 
its  marvellous  inconsistencies  and  contrasts  in  cli- 
mate, character  of  the  people,  and  face  of  the 
land, — so  marvellous  as,  we  trust,  to  excuse  the 
unprecedented  length  of  tliis  sentence, — undoubt- 
edly make  modern  Mexico  one  of  the  most  prolific, 
original,  and  diffcult  themes  for  the  study  of  the 
traveller. 

Yet  this  great  theme  has  found  in  Humboldt  a 
writer  of  strength  sufficient  to  grapple  with  it  in 
nearly  all  its  relations.  While  yet  a  young  man, 
or,  at  least,  while  his  physical  as  well  as  mental 
energies  were  in  their  meridian,  he  came  over  to 


352  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

this  country  with  an  enthusiasm  for  science  which 
was  only  heightened  by  obstacles,  and  with  stores 
of  it  already  accumulated  that  enabled  him  to 
detect  the  nature  of  every  new  object  that  came 
under  his  eye  and  arrange  it  in  its  proper  class. 
With  his  scientific  instruments  in  his  hand,  he 
might  be  seen  scaling  the  snow-covered  peaks  of 
the  Cordilleras,  or  diving  into  their  unfathomable 
caverns  of  silver;  now  wandering  through  their 
dark  forests  in  search  of  new  specimens  for  his 
herbarium,  now  coasting  the  stormy  shores  of  the 
Gulf  and  penetrating  its  unhealthy  streams,  jot- 
ting down  every  landmark  that  might  serve  to 
guide  the  future  navigator,  or  surveying  the 
crested  Isthmus  in  search  of  a  practicable  commu- 
nication between  the  great  seas  on  its  borders,  and 
then,  again,  patiently  studying  the  monuments 
and  manuscripts  of  the  Aztecs  in  the  capital,  or 
mingling  with  the  wealth  and  fashion  in  its 
saloons;  frequenting  every  place,  in  short,  and 
everywhere  at  home: 

"  Grammaticus,  rhetor,  geometres,  ....  omnia  novit." 

The  whole  range  of  these  various  topics  is  brought 
under  review  in  his  pages,  and  on  all  he  sheds  a 
ray,  sometimes  a  flood,  of  light.  His  rational 
philosophy,  content  rather  to  doubt  than  to  decide, 
points  out  the  track  which  other  adventurous 
spirits  may  follow  up  with  advantage.  'No  anti- 
quary has  done  so  much  towards  determining  the 
original  hives  of  the  semi-civilized  races  of  the 
Mexican  plateau.  No  one,  not  even  of  the  Span- 
iards, has  brought  together  such  an  important 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  353 

mass  of  information  in  respect  to  the  resources, 
natural  products,  and  statistics  generally,  of  New- 
Spain.  His  explorations  have  identified  more 
than  one  locality  and  illustrated  more  than  one 
curious  monument  of  the  people  of  Anahuac, 
which  had  baffled  the  inquiries  of  native  antiqua- 
ries; and  his  work,  while  embodying  the  results 
of  profound  scholarship  and  art,  is  at  the  same 
time,  in  many  respects,  the  very  best  manuel  du 
voyageur,  and,  as  such,  has  been  most  frequently 
used  by  subsequent  tourists.  It  is  true,  his  pages 
are  sometimes  disfigured  by  pedantry,  ambitious 
display,  learned  obscurity,  and  other  affectations 
of  the  man  of  letters.  But  what  human  work  is 
without  its  blemishes?  His  various  writings  on 
the  subject  of  New  Spain,  taken  collectively,  are 
one  of  those  monuments  which  may  be  selected  to 
show  the  progress  of  the  species.  Their  author 
reminds  us  of  one  of  the  ancient  athletee,  who 
descended  into  the  arena  to  hurl  the  discus  with  a 
giant  arm,  that  distanced  every  cast  of  his  con- 
temporaries. 

There  is  one  branch  of  his  fruitful  subject 
which  M.  de  Humboldt  has  not  exhausted,  and,  in- 
deed, has  but  briefly  touched  on.  This  is  the  social 
condition  of  the  country,  especially  as  found  in  its 
picturesque  capital.  This  has  been  discussed  by 
subsequent  travellers  more  fully,  and  Ward,  Bul- 
lock, Lyons,  Poinsett,  Tudor,  Latrobe,  have  all 
produced  works  which  have  for  their  object,  more 
or  less,  the  social  habits  and  manners  of  the  people. 
With  most  of  them  this  is  not  the  prominent 
object;  and  others  of  them,  probably,  have  found 

Vol.  I.— 23 


354  BIOGRAPHICAL    AND 

obstacles  in  effecting  it  to  any  great  extent,  from 
an  imperfect  knowledge  of  the  language, — the 
golden  key  to  the  sympathies  of  a  people, — ^with- 
out which  a  traveller  is  as  much  at  fault  as  a  man 
without  an  eye  for  color  in  a  picture-gallery,  or 
an  ear  for  music  at  a  concert.  He  may  see  and 
hear,  indeed,  in  both;  but  cui  bono?  The  travel- 
ler, ignorant  of  the  language  of  the  nation  whom 
he  visits,  may  descant  on  the  scenery,  the  roads, 
the  architecture,  the  outside  of  things,  the  rates 
and  distances  of  posting,  the  dress  of  the  people  in 
the  streets,  and  may  possibly  meet  a  native  or  two, 
half  denaturalized,  kept  to  dine  with  strangers, 
at  his  banker's.  But  as  to  the  interior  mechanism 
of  society,  its  secret  sympathies,  and  famihar  tone 
of  thinking  and  feeling,  he  can  know  no  more 
than  he  could  of  the  contents  of  a  library  by  run- 
ning over  the  titles  of  strange  and  unknown 
authors  packed  together  on  the  shelves. 

It  was  to  supply  this  deficiency  that  the  work 
before  us,  no  doubt,  was  given  to  the  public,  and 
it  was  composed  under  circumstances  that  afforded 
every  possible  advantage  and  facility  to  its 
author.  Although  the  initials  only  of  the  name 
are  given  in  the  title-page,  yet,  from  these  and 
certain  less  equivocal  passages  in  the  body  of  the 
work,  it  requires  no  (Edipus  to  divine  that  the 
author  is  the  wife  of  the  Chevalier  Calderon  de  la 
Barca,  well  known  in  this  country  during  his  long 
residence  as  Spanish  minister  at  Washington, 
where  his  amiable  manners  and  high  personal 
qualities  secured  him  general  respect  and  the 
regard  of  all  who  knew  him.    On  the  recognition 


CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES  355 

of  the  independence  of  Mexico  by  the  mother- 
country,  Senor  Calderon  was  selected  to  fill  the 
office  of  the  first  Spanish  envoy  to  the  republic.  It 
was  a  delicate  mission  after  so  long  an  estrange- 
ment, and  it  was  hailed  by  the  Mexicans  with 
every  demonstration  of  pride  and  satisfaction. 
Though  twenty  years  had  elapsed  since  they  had 
established  their  independence,  yet  they  felt  as  a 
waj^vard  son  may  feel  who,  having  absconded 
from  the  paternal  roof  and  set  up  for  himself,  still 
looks  back  to  it  with  a  sort  of  reverence,  and,  in 
the  plenitude  of  his  prosperity,  still  feels  the  want 
of  the  parental  benediction.  We,  who  cast  off 
our  allegiance  in  a  similar  way,  can  comprehend 
the  feeling.  The  new  minister,  from  the  moment 
of  his  setting  foot  on  the  Mexican  shore,  was 
greeted  with  an  enthusiasm  which  attested  the 
popular  feeling,  and  his  presence  in  the  capital 
was  celebrated  by  theatrical  exhibitions,  bull- 
fights, illuminations,  fetes  pubhc  and  private,  and 
every  possible  demonstration  of  respect  for  the 
new  envoy  and  the  country  who  sent  him.  His 
position  secured  him  access  to  every  place  of  inter- 
est to  an  intelhgent  stranger,  and  introduced  him 
into  the  most  intimate  recesses  of  society,  from 
which  the  stranger  is  commonly  excluded,  and  to 
which,  indeed,  none  but  a  Spaniard  could,  under 
any  circumstances,  have  been  admitted.  Fortu- 
nately, the  minister  possessed,  in  the  person  of  his 
accomplished  wife,  one  who  had  both  the  leisure 
and  the  talent  to  profit  by  these  uncommon  oppor- 
tunities, and  the  result  is  given  in  the  work  before 
us,  consisting  of  letters  to  her  family,  which,  it 


356  CRITICAL    MISCELLANIES 

seems,  since  her  return  to  the  United  States,  have 
been  gathered  together  and  prepared  for  pub- 
Hcation.* 


The  present  volumes  make  no  pretensions  to 
enlarge  the  boundaries  of  our  knowledge  in  re- 
spect to  the  mineral  products  of  the  country,  its 
geography,  its  statistics,  or,  in  short,  to  physical  or 
political  science.  These  topics  have  been  treated 
with  more  or  less  depth  by  the  various  travellers 
who  have  written  since  the  great  publications  of 
Humboldt.  We  have  had  occasion  to  become 
tolerably  well  acquainted  with  their  productions; 
and  we  may  safely  assert  that  for  spirited  por- 
traiture of  society, — a  society  unlike  any  thing 
existing  in  the  Old  World  or  the  New, — for  pictu- 
resque delineation  of  scenery,  for  richness  of  illus- 
tration and  anecdote,  and  for  the  fascinating 
graces  of  style,  no  one  of  them  is  to  be  compared 
with  "  Life  in  Mexico." 

*  The  analysis  of  the  work,  with  several  pages  of  extracts  from  it, 
is  here  omitted,  as  containing  nothing  that  is  not  already  familiar  to 
the  English  reader. 

End  of  Volume  I. 


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